


Hiraeth

by rayline



Series: mcyt stuff lol [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Explicit Homophobia, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, King George - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Masquerade Ball, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poetry, Possibly Unrequited Love, Royalty AU, Sexual contents, Slow Burn, Swearing, Violence, War, background karl/sapnap, knight dream, maladaptive day dreaming, medieval era, narrative warping, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayline/pseuds/rayline
Summary: hiraeth(ˈhɪəraɪθ)a nostalgic longing for a place which can never be revisited, a homesickness for a home that never was. the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.--“The crown,” George reaffirms, “It suits you.”“...George?” Dream swallows past the lump in his throat, words dying on his tongue.“Yes,” George grins, “Your highness?”--knight!dream and king!george--Regret, retaliation, and the realisation of what you've done.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Karl Jacobs/Sapnap
Series: mcyt stuff lol [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137227
Comments: 912
Kudos: 2322
Collections: Keep it going





	1. [Rash]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i haven't creatively written in absolute ages, and this is honestly not my best work but i havent actually written anything longer than a one-shot in ages and i got really inspired. so here we are, tl can stop freaking out now about knight dream and king george for i am here to deliver
> 
> if you know me irl, no you don't
> 
> dont harass creators  
> \--  
> a good portion of this story is coming from my brain however there are a few ideas that i got from twt :)

\--

“Are you listening?”

“Absolutely not.”

Dream stifles a disappointed sigh through his teeth and leans back into the seat, feeling the poor craftsmanship of it impale him through his armour. His shoulders are drowsy with boredom, while Sapnap non verbally agrees through his drawn-out yawns and slumped posture. 

He’d correct Sapnap’s posture, but a lack of eyes on them cause no draw for attention. Not even the King is watching them, The _King's_ eyes are glazed over with a sense of boredom as he watches the match. It’s obvious from the dullness in his expression he wants to be anywhere but here.

It’s fair, all things considered. 

Sapnap groans into the shell of his discarded helmet, body crumpled forwards in exhaustion. “This is painful.”

Dream wants to keep his composure, he’s trying to keep his composure, but he’s been sitting here for so long he might lose his mind.

“You’re telling me,” he murmurs through a taut jaw and a tired expression.

There are two idiots in an open dirt arena. It’s a small arena, meant for training squires, surrounded by a meagre quartz wall and some hay bales scattered around the arena. The hastily crafted bleachers face one way and the King sits at the top of it with his guard. 

His posture is slacked, not taut, or pulled straight like a King’s should be. His hand is supporting his chin and his face is unceremoniously uninterested. 

King George the II, youngest ruler in their entire history. 

Commoners bicker about this king over morning tea like it’s the most important thing to grace the planet. “The poor boy is only 24, he’s hardly had a chance to live!” -or- “He’s still a king!”

Dream’s too busy wiping the floor with Sapnap’s self-pity to care, really. 

When it comes to war, Dream doubts the boy will survive a second. It’s hardly fair to call him a boy-- Dream’s younger than him-- but the point stands. He’s inexperienced, he’s clueless.

He reckons he couldn’t do much better, but it’s not his position anyway, so he doesn’t care.

He tries not to care.

Finally, one of the squires gives in and forfeits, drawing Dream out of his thoughts and back to the real world. He sees Sapnap look up hopefully, tiredness washing away in the face of the fact that he might get to go next. Possibly. 

Dream knows it won't happen, they pair weak little squires-- boys of 10-- against each other after a few months of training in the pit. Sometimes they’ll round up the older ones, but these tournaments only prime the little ones then feed them to the experienced. 

Sapnap’s experienced-- nearly a knight, Dream’s proud enough to say-- but he’s not the kind of knight this system looks for: tall, muscle-y men who’d rip you apart if you looked at them the wrong way.

Sapnap wasn’t like that. Sapnap was tall-ish, but not muscle-y or terrifying in the slightest. He was entertaining, funny, strong, but not ruthless.

Dream was. On the battlefield, he was the perfect match. The perfect entertainment for the crowd. Quiet, quick, strong, and tall. He was light on his feet and good with a blade, ruthless to the point where nobles could get a good shock. Handsome enough for the ladies to swoon and experienced enough for the men to be jealous.

He keeps his distance. He’d rather not be offered a seasoned squire for breakfast. It’s not like he doesn’t like the attention, it’s that it’s the wrong kind of attention.

Of course, though, his wishes are always ignored. This was not fantasy, but real life: where nothing good ever happened to those who deserved it. The announcer calls his name down onto the pit, where a lanky teenager stands. He’s pacing around hesitantly, fingers fidgeting with the hilt of his blade. It looks like he’s saying something to himself, but Dream’s not sure. 

Everyone’s heads turn towards Dream and he mutters curses to himself as he stands up. Sapnap moves to offer him a fist bump but Dream ignores him in favour of picking up his sword, adjusting his mask and moving to the aisle.

The people part as he steps down. Sword turned downwards and mask on, he’s not thrilled to see the bare minimum of a squire who passed his first blade test. He can’t remember the kid’s name, and he might not be able to see the kid's face beneath his mask but he knows he’s petrified.

Dream sighs and steps forward, gently clinking his blade against the opposers in replacement of a handshake. Tip to tip, it’s his signature thing. No physical contact unless it’s from family or friends. 

He doesn’t have a whole lot of either. Sapnap, Skeppy, Bad, and Ant are his friends, and he has his family back home, but not much else remains for him. 

Sometimes he wonders why he doesn’t just drop this life and run away with a pretty girl. Live in a cabin by the woods or move to a new kingdom and forge a new identity for himself.

His fantasies cause distraction long enough for him to neglect the fact that the fight had started. The kid charges forward, his blade is wobbling and it’s obviously too big. His swing is too large, and it’s too slow, making no noise except for the struggle to bring it down.

Dream side steps the blade easily, sidestepping another very forceful attack. The kid is hitting too hard, too slowly. Dream exhales through his nose and blocks a hit with the rim of the top of his blade. As the metals slide together, he swings the kids force back, knocking him into the ground. 

He holds his sword to the tip of the whimpering boy's throat. He’s whining like a toddler, hands fumbling for his sword knocked feet away.

“I forfeit, I forfeit!” The boy cries.

The crowds are bored, so the crowd boos. That’s how it goes when he’s paired up with little children offered up to be slaughtered. 

“Your Highness,” Dream starts, retracting his sword from the boy and sheathing it back in place, “If I may,” He’s addressing George now, who’s still looking at him with the same bored expression, “This arena is no place for knights to slaughter squires.”

The crowd boos again. He’s not giving them a show, not the show they want, but George perks up ever so slightly. He directs his hand from his chin and waves at the audience to shut up for once and to let the man speak. 

“These are little boys your advisor team is pairing up against fully grown men-” Dream continues.

The announcer cuts him off, “Sir Dream, if you are so annoyed with this system, why don’t you pick your opponent, then?”

Dream goes silent. Contemplative, almost

The announcers face breaks from frustration to mocking, raising his eyebrows intently. “Then don’t complain about our s-”

“I volunteer,” a monotone voice contributes from the crowd. 

Dream smirks a little. There he was. 

Dream relies on Techno in situations like these, and he has yet to let him down. 

The announcer grumbles and sits back down as Techno slips onto the wall of the arena and hops down. His pink braid is trailing behind him on the floor-- it’s a wonder the thing hasn’t accidentally been cut off yet. 

Techno shoots him a grin behind the wretched pig mask he wears (it smells like shit) and Dream shoots a grin back behind ruffled hair and his mask. 

Techno holds out his blade, tipping it towards the ground. Dream clinks his own blade against it then backs away for a second. Helmet discarded somewhere in the distance, Techno’s heels scuff the dirt ground as he turns away for the briefest of moments.

Dream drags a hand across his forehead, the harsh sunlight melting his skin into liquid. The back of his palm drags the liquid away, swiping it onto the floor from his eyes.

His heartbeat radiates in his chest for a moment, tilting his head tauntingly to face his opponent. Techno turns his back, peering over his shoulder to meet Dream’s eyes again, then fully facing forwards. 

Dream scratches his lower lip for a second, shuffling his feet.

The announcer audibly grumbles, pressing his thumb to where his jaw meets his ear, breathing something under his breath. “Ready…” He warns.

Dream swipes a loose finger over the hilt of his blade.

Techno’s feet collide with the ground before the announcer has time to finish, feet carrying him to Dream in the split of a second. His blade moves for his head, but Dream slices his sword upwards, blocking horizontally and retreating a few steps from the impact. 

George leans forwards in his seat, his fingers laced together with his elbows resting on his knees. Sapnap perks up a second, sees his friend battle it out, then drops his head back down to continue taking a nap.

Dream huffs, his back foot staggering back a bit as two blades connect, causing a resounding clang and a sharp screeching sound as each draws back from the other. Techno’s blade whistles as it cuts through the air back to his side.

Dream’s foot connects with the ground, barely able to dodge the attack.

He doesn’t have time to think about his actions too much. The first thing they teach you is to think and to not let your emotions get the better of you, but Dream always was an angry fighter. 

Techno’s sword flings itself towards his face, only prevented from locking itself into his mask by Dream’s own blade, a few centimeters away from piercing his mask and hitting his quivering lip. He swings his blade up, pushing his blade away from his face, gasping for air. 

Rising back up onto his balance his foot connects with Techno’s leg. Sweeping him down onto the ground, causing him to stumble back a bit before pushing off his feet back up, swiftly landing back down onto the ground.

Dream’s hand clenches around the blade tighter, feeling his palms sweat in anticipation, causing the handle to become slippery and loose in his grip. Taking a few hurried steps forwards, Techno connects his foot with Dream’s side. His body rings up and down with pain, then slumps onto the ground. 

Techno stares for a moment, before pushing his foot into his injured shoulder. A sharp hiss was ripped from the back of his throat as he used his other foot to kick Dream’s blade out of his hand, watching it clatter away.

Techno moves first, bringing the sword to strike Dream.

He dodges with his blade, swerving out to the side and bridging his leg up to kick Techno onto the floor. His head whips back, body arched, momentum snapped him like a rubber band. It seems like he hangs there in the air for a moment before he connects his back with the ground.

Techno hangs on the ground for a moment, collecting his strength back. Dream wobbles over towards Techno and lets his foot rest on his chest and a blade pointed to the tip of his throat, nearly digging into the soft flesh. 

There’s a silence for a moment, just labored breathing and intently watching the other for sudden moves. Then Dream swipes his blade away and sheathes it back. He draws his hand out for Techno to grab, who grabs it with his other hand and lets him pull him up.

Techno releases his hand as soon as he’s up and nods with a grin. 

They part the other direction silently, no more words exchanged as they grab their blades from the ground and move back to where they sat before.

It’s dangerously quiet for a moment, as they both move to sit down. With Sapnap clapping a hand on his back then retracting it seeing Dream’s inherent wince. 

Through the ripple of silence, one person claps, slowly but not tauntingly. Dream looks towards the sound and sees the King watching him with curious eyes.

Dream doesn’t say anything and turns back to the arena, straining his ears to hear anything else.

The announcer mumbles a quiet “fuck, alright uh,” and shuffles some papers, already back to his so-called duties.

Dream knows George's staring, knows though the clapping has died down that he was still watching him with intent curiosity. Like he wanted-- needed to collect him.

He doesn’t lock eyes with him for the rest of this _stupid_ tournament. 

\--

“You certainly caught _someone’s_ eye,”

“That’s not what the point of this all was.”

The chill air passes through the open window, drenching their once stuffy room into a cool change from the blazing heat of summer. 

Sapnap rolls his eyes and fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, always hating long-sleeved shirts and the traditional formal wear. 

“Then what was?”

Dream doesn’t really know how to answer that.

“Look,” Sapnap sighs, “The princess is probably be at the banquet, if you just catch her eye there-”

Dream rolls his shoulders, back facing Sapnap’s back. “I’m not trying to catch _anyone’s_ eye, I’m just part of the guard,” He humbles himself.

“You could be marrying into the royal family,”

“I don’t care about royalty,”

“Jeez, do you have no sense of betterment?”

“Stop sounding like my old mentor-- and no, I don’t.” He turns around and fumbles with his shirt, tying the loose strings and struggling to put on the tunic. He really hated wearing all of this-- it was so stuffy and unnatural.

Fucking Summer Solstice celebrations.

“Well _I’m_ going to go, preferably to get some food and catch _someone’s_ eye.”

Dream rolls his eyes and discards his tunic eventually, pushing his sleeves up to his elbow. “You have nothing else on your mind, ever.”

Sapnap scoffs at the accusation and makes for the door. “Me? Never.”

The room is drenched in silence quickly.

Dream looks out the window for a second, contemplating just about nothing and letting his eyes hook onto the sight of a bird on the railing.

He grunted lowly to himself, rumble in his throat audible only to him to express his displeasure with himself. Feet pacing, he opened the door and started towards Sapnap. “Alright alright fine, I’m coming,” he breathed exasperatedly. Sapnap shot him a grin and continued forwards.

“That’s the spirit.”

\--

He regretted it. 

Not immediately, coming to a banquet was always a tedious task but at least there was food. Usually, Sapnap was there too, Bad and Ant, maybe even Skeppy if he didn’t forget about it. 

This time though, he sat alone at a table. People hung around the room, on the floor, even in the hallways. He rocked his wine in a simple wooden cup, distastefully looking at it and grimacing. 

Eventually, he abandons the blaring music for some peace and quiet, slipping out into a deserted part of the hallway where he could avoid couples kissing or doing-- "other things," out in public. He shudders and leans against the cool cobblestone wall, finally relieved his ears aren’t being tested with the noise level anymore. 

“Not a party person?”

Dream flinches with his whole body and looks up to find a rather underdressed (for a king) King George, leaning against the opposing wall with his arms crossed. “Fu- My king, I didn’t see you there.”

George huffs a breath and tugs at his sleeves, obviously uncomfortable with the banquet as much as Dream was.

Well, that’s one thing they shared.

Dream bit his inner cheek, contemplating if he should say something or nothing. “If you do not wish me being rude, your highness, why are you out here?” 

George shuffled in his spot visibly, turning his head to the side uncomfortable and reply with a meagre: “It’s too stuffy.”

Dream presses his lips together in a polite smile. “That is one way to put it,”

“Please,” George starts, “there’s no need to be formal with me.” When Dream audibly pauses for a second, unsure what to do, he adds “That’s an order.”

Dream blinks, taken aback, but concedes to his orders. How could he not? He was his king, anyway. “Alright, uh-”

“George,” George finishes.

“Right,” Dream hesitates, “George.”

“And you are..?” George turns his head back to Dream, politely gesturing his hand towards him.

“Sir Dream,” He answers rigidly, it’s been a while since he’d had to say his name. Almost everyone knew him.

Not George, though.

“Yes, of course.” He replies, still politely. Dream has to remind himself this is just polite conversation between a Knight and a King. Perfectly normal.

“No ladies catch your eyes?” George interrupts his inner monologue. Dream shakes his head and shrugs. “None?”

“With all due respect sire,” Dream responds, instinctively, used to having this question shoved down his throat. 

“George,” He reminds him.

“...George, my duty is to serve the royal guard. Not frock around with ladies,” He replies hesitantly, the King's name feeling weird on his tongue. Itchy, out of place. Not in the way it feels wrong to say Nick after saying Sapnap his whole life, but more like rule-breaking.

Like treason, verbal treason.

“You look as if you’re contemplating something.” Dream concludes.

“Does it?” George hums.

“Quite.”

He sits in silence for a moment before glancing back at Dream, there’s a hint of curiosity still lingering in his eyes since the tournament.“Would you be interested in-” he cuts himself off, mutters something to himself ( _“god this is stupid-”)_ and forces himself to finish the sentence. “-being a part of my personal guard?”

Dream’s caught off guard. “......What?”

“I-I’m sorry if it was too-”

“No, no it’s perfectly- reasonable,” A lie. 

George taps his foot nervously, or impatiently? Dream doesn’t know George.

Dream frowns. He doesn’t _know_ George. His father was predictable, you grew to know him from his actions.

Dream didn’t know _George_.

“Well?”

“I-” Dream hesitates, takes a moment to breathe and think, then continues, “As much as I’d like to give you an answer right now… George, I need to mull this offer over.”

George looks ever so slightly forlorn, but not as if he wasn’t expecting it. “Of course.”

Footsteps resound down the hallway from the Banquet just as George finishes. “Dream!”

Oh god, anyone but him right now. Actually no, the worst-case scenario could be Skeppy, but he was #2 on the ‘please do not disturb my very formal and professional meeting with the new king’: “Sapnap-” Dream starts, trying to shut him up.

Sapnap slows his steps and moves towards the middle of the hallway, shooting Dream an angry look. “Get back in here, there's this pretty gi- Oh shit uh- I apologise, Your majesty,,” He shrivels up quickly, realising George was on the other wall. Dream holds back a snicker and takes a few steps closer to Sapnap.

_“You didn’t tell me you were speaking to the fucking king??”_

_“I wasn’t until like 5 minutes ago!”_

“Excuse my squire-” Dream tries to cover.

“Nearly Knight,” Sapnap cuts off.

“-Sapnap,”

George smiles politely and nods back at him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too uh- your- your highness,”

George visibly grimaces at this, something only Dream could spot.

_“Dream we should really get going,”_ Sapnap hisses under his breath.

_“No shit,”_

“I’m afraid I have some matters to attend to,” Dream lies easily, rolling off the tongue naturally. 

George looks a bit disappointed, has this man never talked to another person outside of the royal household? “Well it was lovely talking to you.”

“You as… well.” Dream continues, battling the internal debate of this mysterious man as Sapnap grabs his wrist and drags him back to the banquet. 

\--

“He asked you to be part of his perso-”

“Shhh!” Dream shushes.

Sapnap’s staring at him like he just told him he was secretly a prince, mouth left agape and his drink swirling in his cup.

“Do you realise how big of a deal this is?”

Dream groans into the palm covering half of his face, “Yes.”

“Do you really?” Sapnap parries, lowering his shocked eyebrows. 

Dream fumbles with his words for a moment, heart jumping into his throat. 

“Not yet.”

Sapnap pinches the bridge of his nose with obvious disappointment, wondering sometimes how he was the more observant one than his own mentor-- and friend.

“Well? Are you going to tell him yes?”

“Sapnap, this isn’t about-”

“Well it kind of is.”

Now Dream’s the one pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to counteract his stubborn friend. “I still have duties, as a member of the guard.”

“All your duties suck, man.”

He’s not wrong.

“When’s the last time you’ve gone out of the city?” Sapnap counter. “Not including Squire training.”

Dream’s breath catches in his throat, “Uh,” he starts, racking his memory for the last time he did actually leave the city. The last moment that comes up is when he was maybe 15, visiting his family.

“Exactly.”

“And what will happen to you?” Dream avoids Sapnap’s statement carefully, leaning in over the table slightly to keep strangers from overhearing.

Sapnap’s stunned into silence. “Uh,”

“Exactly,” Dream mimics.

“Look I can train with Skeppy,” Sapnap suggests hurriedly.

Dream snorts at that one, turning his head away and stifling a smile. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Dream waves his hand, “It’s just I’d rather fall headfirst into a battle pit against a mob of angry squires than have Skeppy train anyone.”

Sapnap scoffs. “Ant?”

Dream huffs, considering the idea briefly. “Maybe, but he’s hardly a Knight,” It’s true, he was only knighted at the winter solstice last year. 

“Cmon Dream, this is your chance to do something other than mope around like a ditzy nimrod.”

“What the hell is a nimrod-,”

“That’s not the point,” Sapnap’s voice is getting louder, almost dangerously close to the point where others might hear them. He recognises this and bites his lip. “This is a big thing.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Sapnap scoffs unrelentingly. “Dream, c'mon man.”

Dream groans to himself then looks away from Sapnap’s face, which is burning with ideals and goals and fiery ideas that will only land him in deep fucking trouble.

“Fine,” He says if only to get Sapnap off his back. “I’ll consider it.”

\--

It’s not a matter of being on the personal guard that’s bugging him, it’s George himself.

He’s unfit for King-- an opinion Dream has recently formed-- inexperienced, unaware of social grace. His parents died only a few months ago, leaving someone who has yet to be called an adult socially with the crown. 

People say he doesn’t know the social graces, people say he refuses to marry off his sister.

It’s all rumors to Dream, but if he wants to be a part of his guard he has to seriously consider it.

Practise burns, the sun is blistering. As Dream dodges attacks and side steps sweeps, he knows someone is watching him. He doesn’t have time to place a name to a face, but as soon as this Knight gets off his back he worries he’ll already know the answer. 

He knocks onto the pavement with a forced grunt, knocking the air out of his lungs, and his plain training tunic is sticking to him with sweat. The tip of the blade is digging into the bottom of his chin, swallowing a gulp in a last attempt to form a plan.

Despite better ideas, Dream reaches and grabs the blade with his hand. Sure this would leave a mark, he kicks the opponent back and shoves his sword backward. The Knight is caught off guard, tumbling backward and his weapon scattering onto the ground. Dream kicks himself up and places a foot on the man's chest, panting.

The Knight grunts in defeat, but takes Dream's hand when he offers it. 

Dream lifts the other knight up, giving him a tired stare as he gives him a glare of defeat. As the opponent walks off, Dream places his hands on his knees and keels over, catching his breath. He winces, feeling the part in his hand where the blade dug under sensitive skin and reminded himself to bandage it later. 

With a hesitant tilt of his head, he looks up to where he felt the lingering stare. George sits on the bleachers, leaning his elbows on his thighs and pressing his interlaced hands to his lips. Inclined forwards, a sharp curiosity rests in his eyes. He looks like anything but a King, with a spare tunic and some simple leather pants. No crown, no jewels, he looks like another Knight waiting for training. With no guards there, nobody would suspect a thing.

Dream knows better than that, though. 

He’s staring at him intensely, drawing a figure of the man in his mind. Dream’s blond hair sticks to his forehead as he lifts himself up and dismisses himself.

Sapnap’s at the bottom of the bleachers, having just finished training himself. The man is drenched like he just took a bath. 

Dream sits next to him for a second, taking the towel Sapnap hands him wordlessly. 

“Have you thought about it?” Sapnap starts abruptly.

Dream wants to ask what he’s talking about, but with the King behind him and the fact he already knows, he doesn’t. 

“Yes.”

“And?” Sapnap pushes.

Dream looks to his feet, wrapping the towel around the back of his neck and wiping the grease off of it. “I don’t know.”

“What’s got you so caught up?”

“A lot of things.”

“C’mon this is a-”

Dream hisses at him to be silent. “He's right behind us.”

Sapnap’s eyes widen and takes a very not so discreet look behind him, then turns back to Dream. 

“He’s looking at you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dream murmurs.

“C’mon man,” Sapnap starts, “He’s obviously interested.”

Dream scoffs. “And if I’m not?”

“Well, he’s the king, not like you have a choice,”

“Yes but he _gave_ me a choice,” Dream murmurs. “Now shut up before others start spreading rumours.” 

Sapnap, for once in his life, falls silent.

\--

The next time Dream sees him, he’s out in the market.

It’s a Sunday morning, most people aren’t working or doing much of anything. George is still wearing nothing more than a tunic and some leather pants, he looks so unbelievably plain it’s no wonder Dream’s eyes always skidded over him. There’s no guard with him, what is he doing? 

_‘You’re going to regret this one.’_

Was this really worth it? Either being a glorified servant or actually going out of the city? Doing something?

Dream fumbles with the apples in his hand as he slides 4 gold coins to the old lady at the fruit market. He nods at her politely then moves to the market stand George was staring at, looking through the cheese and other dairy products.

Dream silently moves to his side, not too close, but enough so he could whisper to him.

“What are you doing out here without your guard, sire?”

George looks up to him with a passive expression and says nothing, turning his eyes back to the merchant, smiling and handing him some gold coins.

“Sire,” Dream says again to try to grab his attention. It’s a bit louder, and George nearly winces. Not from the tone, but from the looks people might start giving him. 

George puts the goods in a small sack, turning away from the market. The merchant looks to Dream, but Dream only frustratedly turns towards George, disappearing in the crowd. 

“Sire,” Dream tries again, gravitating through the crowd, but the mop of brown hair is nearly impossible to find.

“George!”

George’s eyes whirl to his innocently, that stupid fucking passive face staring at him with the same curiosity from the first time he saw him, weeks ago. 

“I accept!” Dream breathes, “I accept.” 

A few people are staring at them now, but George pays no mind to them, only nodding quietly to him, then disappearing again.

Dream stands there for a second, with passing strangers giving him weird stares, left to contemplate the weight of his rashly made decision.

\--


	2. [Sunlight]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> george tries to make friends. dream's reluctant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> george 👏 dream  
> having no idea what they're doing

\--

Dream always held a sort of complicated relationship when it came to stepping into new things. It’s like learning how to swim for the first time, you don’t know what you’re doing for a while until you do. There’s no measurement of when that time is, and it leaves a lot of things up to the unknown.

Dream always liked a challenge, but a calculated one. Leaving things up for life to decide always ended in catastrophe.

I suppose you could say playing the waiting game was not in Dream’s interest.

Sapnap drums his fingers against the wooden surface of the table. He was always fidgety, always restless. Itching to get a hand on a blade and to get out there and fight. 

The table they sat at was secluded, away from the crowd so they could eat in peace. There was this nice nestled park, right by the walls of the city, where children would sneak out past their bedtimes to go and play on the swings or jump in the sand. 

Dream quietly put down his sandwich, tired of the same turkey bullshit he’d been forced to endure for the past 3 days.

He tried not to think about it, how just over a week ago he cried his terms of acceptance into something he’d never know everything about. Memories of bad, rash decisions, flood his head, and he worries he can’t take anything back.

Maybe he should’ve stayed in his bubble, maybe he shouldn’t have given in to Sapnap.

There was no time to think though, not anymore.

The days were becoming shorter, with the summer solstice bidding them goodbye to the long, scorching days of summer and into the chill air of fall. As much as he complained about the heat waves, summer was always a better time of year for Dream than winter. 

At least in summer, he could go out and train, winter he was locked inside until the blizzards died down and the air warmed a bit from their frozen chill.

“Dream,” Sapnap hissed, breaking the mould of his heavy thoughts.

“What?” He whispered back.

Sapnap didn’t verbally reply but tilted his head over to the bench a few feet away from theirs, where a familiar face sat.

He could never really get rid of him, could he?

Dream put his sandwich down with purpose now and stood up, nodding to Sapnap and walking over.

George stood up quietly too, not a word exchanged between them through thin airs of unspoken commentary. 

Dream glanced over his shoulder back at Sapnap, who merely made an angry flapping gesture with his hand to shuffle forwards with his duties and not worry about him.

Dream frowned a second, then turned back to where George _(You should really go back to saying ‘the King’)_ had already made for the city square.

He caught up to him easily, a few inches given to him over George. He slowed his walk to a languid stroll, staying close enough to the King’s side so he could tell he hadn’t wandered off (for politeness’s sake.) but far enough that people didn’t connect the two dots immediately.

Dream didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say. What even was there to say? Not much. 

George’s walk was smooth, royal, but carefree at the same time. Under the duress of royal pressure to one day be the king, Dream could hardly explain the way his hands clasped together behind his back, the way his hair was left tamed, the careful nonchalant expression of his jaw.

Dream averted his eyes before George saw him over-analyzing him.

They reached the castle gates after several minutes (it had to be at least ten, Dream ponders, the park wasn’t far from the gates but the city _was_ massive) of tight silence. George unclasped his hands from behind his back and nodded politely at the soldier in front of the gates, quietly letting him open the gates for him.

Dream stood a few feet back, watching the soldier unlock the gate, step through, and hold it for George. George turns around to glance at Dream, still standing in front of the gates with hesitance. 

“I don’t bite,” George remarks, and Dream lets his shoulders drop hesitantly as he steps through.

The soldier closes the gate behind them quietly, and George starts forwards with an air of coolness, which contradicted last week entirely.

Dream bit his tongue to keep from asking, knowing some things wouldn’t help. He didn’t know him. He was not the King's friend. 

Instead of walking forwards towards the castle gates, George slowly turns his path into the garden by the side of the castle. Something Dream didn’t know existed.

George _(the king)_ stands at the edge of the garden, it stretches out for ages, bushes littering every crevice and man-made rivers that loop randomly. It looks like an organised mess, but it still has its beauty.

George’s face is twisted in a forlorn expression, standing there for a second before moving on without a further word.

Dream’s feet scuff at the cobblestone for a second before gravitating back to George’s side as they enter the castle. The interior is certainly a lot less out there than the exterior-- to say the least. Where the exterior really screams fancy, the intricate carving and the delicate stone, the interior is a lot homier. It’s still large, filled with empty halls, but the grand hall looks the same as it always has. The staircases are filled with flowers and plants, giving it a nice look.

It feels comfortable, ever so slightly. Dream’s still out of place, but it’s not too bad. It’s a part of the castle he’s never seen before. 

George leads him up several winding staircases and never-ending hallways till they end up near the top of a tower.

He pushes open the door gently, letting Dream step inside and look the area through.

It’s not like the rest of the castle, it’s a large room with no plants except for one by the window. A fireplace crackles quietly on one end, and a large bed stands on the other side. A table sits in the middle, a single candle flickering in the middle. 

Drea’s hesitant to step foot inside, but he does anyway. It’s not like the cozy rest of the castle or the long dark hallways that make you feel small. It’s more rustic like nobody has slept here for centuries.

There’s no dust accumulating anywhere, it’s obviously been swept through, but it still doesn’t feel right. Not completely. 

Dream tugs at the collar of his shirt, gently letting the cool breeze of night time filter his skin. The window is open, and the plant faces the moon silently. Longing to be anywhere but trapped in a desolate pot. 

“I apologise for the interior, it’s rather,” George pauses, grimacing at the room, “bland.”

Dream has to agree with that one. “It’s alright, thank you your highness,”

George frowns at the formalities that have once resurfaced his vocabulary and nods politely. “This will be your residence, my room is down the hallway to the left, it’s impossible to miss.” George murmurs an ‘unfortunately,’ at the end and retreats back to the doorway. 

Dream purses his lips a second then lets out a silent breath, turning back to the doorway. “What will happen to Sapnap?”

George blinks a moment, gears whirring in his head to place a name to a face. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. Does he not know?

“I’m, uh.”

Yeah, no, he doesn’t. 

Dream bites his inner cheek. “Am I still allowed to train and see him, your highness?” He asks, clarifying. 

George furrows his eyebrows as if it was the silliest question that he could’ve asked at that moment. “Of course, I don’t intend to separate you from all of your friends. That would be cruel.”

Well, +1 to George for being better than his father.

“You will not be tending to me like a maid, if that’s what you’re going to ask next,” George says.

Dream, who was about to ask, closes his mouth. Either he was as readable as a toddler's book or George knew how to see through people.

He gulped.

“I have enough of those,” George finishes. 

Dream lets out a breath that sounds like it was the beginning of a chuckle and nods. “Yes, of course,” He replies in place of silence.

Still, the air is thick with unspoken words.

“I’ll let you settle in,”

George retreats from the doorway silently, his footsteps echoing against the walls as he moves somewhere else, leaving Dream alone in a new room.

Alone.

\--

Dream’s woken up by the annoyingly harsh sunrise, shining in through thin curtains and splashing his rooms with beads of colours that shine compared to the bleakness of night time. Dream groans, not wanting to get up in the slightest, but remembering his duties and forcing himself upright anyway.

It was late at night when he finally finished moving what little he owned into his new living space-- he wouldn’t exactly call it his “room” just yet-- and promptly collapsed onto the bed, asleep. 

Dream drags a hand down his face, digging the heel of his palm into his eye and rubbing away at the tiredness dragging his eyelids down. 

Splayed out onto the covers, he stares up at the ceiling, observing the indents in the cobblestone before he forces himself to rise with the sun. Dragging a hand through his dirty-blond hair, he let a sigh escape his lips as he pushed it back out of his face. Really, it was turning into a mop and he should cut it soon. 

Continuing to rub his face clean of exhaustion, he lines his feet up with the floor and stands up, wobbling for a second to get his balance.

Really, he didn’t function very well on low sleep. 

He lets his eyes flit around the room for a moment, not sure what to do. What now? Does he put on his armour or stroll out there in the same casual clothes peasants wear? Does he wake up the king or does he wait for him to wake up himself? Does he go down and eat or does he wait?

Dream blinks, sitting (well, more like leaning) onto the dresser and looking around the room. It was Monday, so it was likely the King had stuff to do, maybe out in town, so it’d be likely he wanted him to accommodate him. Or not, considering how often he sees him alone in town. Maybe just this once?-

A gentle knock breaks Dream's course of thought as he jumps off the dresser to turn and face the door, which opens hesitantly. Before anyone gets a good peek at his face, he hurried to grasp his mask and clasp it over his face. His vision is once again limited, but he’s safe under it.

George peers through the door, then opens it fully, and Dream would have laughed if he wasn’t sleep deprived and easily startled. Two very shit qualities for a knight. 

“Oh good, you’re awake. I was worried I’d have to drag you out of bed myself.”

Dream scratched his neck uncomfortably. “I apologise,”

“Don’t apologise, you didn’t do anything,” George yawned, covering his mouth and then furrowed his brows. “We have a meeting in 30 minutes,”

“We?” Dream asks, scratching his shoulder.

“Well, you are my guard, aren’t you?” George offers a tense smile.

Dream hesitantly and politely smiles back. “I suppose.”

\--

As soon as George leaves, Dream lets the mask fall from his face for a second, sighs, and puts on his armour. 

He meets George right outside his room, who looks a lot more formal than the plain white long-sleeved shirt he was wearing earlier. 

It doesn’t really suit him.

A cape that’s red and purple, formal king-like attire. There’s too much yellow, red and black.

George squirms in the attire and scoffs to himself, playing with his clothes and trying to strip the unnecessary jewels and the bright colours that blinded the eye.

Dream hums quietly to himself as George wordlessly leads the way. 

“I always hated these things,” George murmurs to himself. 

“The robes?” Dream questions.

“Mm,” George replies, gently checking on the status of a hanging plant in a more light-soaked hallway, and then proceeding forwards to the stairs.

“If you don’t mind, your highness, I believe--” _dressing down looks better on you._

“...You believe?”

Dream holds his tongue angrily. “--that they look fine on you,”

George hums, not an agreement but not a disagreement either. It’s a simple hum as he fidgets with the too big crown on his head.

Dream bites his lip, and they continue down to the cabinet room in quiet, tense silence.

\--

The cabinet room is stark and bland, it’s, even more, a contrast to the rest of the castle’s natural look than his own room is. It smells of fire, burnt paper, and other horrible things that make Dream scrunch his nose and try not to reflexively gag.

It seems George does the same.

They’re the last ones in the cabinet, apparently, as the rest of the seats are filled along with a plain rectangular table. George sits at the head, and Dream stands quietly behind him, scrunching his face up behind his mask at the interior. Nobody would see his facial reaction, but he still made a point to himself to externally show his distaste. 

His eyes skim over the cabinet staff, a lot of people his doesn’t know and probably will never know. A burly man in charge of War, a lanky man that seemed confident in his words but not confident in his actions. Treasury? No. 

His eyes passed over the table and noticed two odd things.

First off was the addition of a woman in the cabinet. Dream knows the old King George would’ve never had a woman in his cabinet, yet new George’s cabinet is half female.

He gains some respect in Dream for that. At the very least, he was not and likely would never be like King George the first. It was good to see, made him fear the man’s intentions a little less. Maybe it didn’t directly affect him, but maybe some things that needed to go would go around here.

The second was that Dream recognised a specific head of brown hair near the end of the table. The brown-haired man was behind the big burly man, rendering it difficult for Dream to see him. Though, when he spoke, the man pushed his chair a pace back.

Dream brought his hands discretely to his chest, lowering his eyebrows as the familiar man locked his eyes with him.

_Bad??? What are you doing here??_

Bad furrowed his eyebrows in obvious shock.

 _I’m the royal advisor, what the muffin are you doing here??_ He mouths. 

Sometimes, Dream forgot Bad knew George personally.

_I’m his personal guard?_

_What?_ Bad stutters for a second, confused.

 _His p-er-son-al gua-rd._ He makes sure to sign slowly. 

_OH,_ He pauses, _Wait WHAT? Since when?_

 _Since yesterday!_ His gestures are hurried, not languid in the slightest but enough for bad to tell the difference of the words apart. 

_I didn’t think he’d actually go through with it!_

Dream pauses for a second. _What?_

 _I’m the one who recommended the idea to him, dummy._ Bad mouths, with a facial expression, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

_...Oh._

He’s brought out of his thoughts by George clearing his throat and saying something more to Bad, who breaks eye contact and responds with his own advice to a situation Dream didn’t really care about.

Dream stands there quietly, pondering the chances of Bad himself recommending George to him. Not thinking he’d go through with it. Was that a fault on Bad or George’s part? Did Bad personally introduce him to the idea of Dream in general or did George see him fight that one time and Bad caught onto it?

By the time the influx of questions died down, the harsh light of noon beamed through the creaks in the door, and the meeting was finally over.

Dream’s legs were sore, cramped from standing that long. No wonder he didn’t have a personal guard for this long, if he was to do this god knows how many times a month.

Dream moves to leave with the rest of the cabinet but realises George has yet to stand up and returns back to his place.

“Your Highness?” He tests the waters with.

George, with his head in his hands and staring frustratedly at a crumpled piece of paper beneath him, sighs. “Let’s go.”

\--

Dream drops a hand behind the bone of his mask and wipes the sweat off his forehead, clasping the mask back onto his face. Heavy armour in summer was a disaster, especially for casually strolling. Battling, it made sense. But just walking through the marketplace, hair sticking to his forehead and his bones drowsy? Not ideal. 

He supposes he couldn’t say much on his part, George was the one doing all the talking, running all the errands. Dream just clung behind the man, keeping the occasional stragglers from doing anything rash or hissing to Sapnap to get back to work whenever he saw him laundering around the training arena. 

George’s shoulders slumped, cracking his neck as he slid the heavy metal crown off his head and sat at the edge of a fountain for a moment. “Truly, I never liked summer.”

He looked to Dream for any reaction, none he could see and no verbal which he could hear. George frowns. 

“For two weeks after the summer solstice, it is awful out here.”

Dream says nothing still. He doesn’t know what to say, and he was his personal guard, not his best friend. It was in his best interests to keep it that way.

George frowns again and huffs. “Alright,” he murmurs, standing up and continuing forwards. At least the poor man has discarded the cape, it must weigh more than him. 

He sees George reconvene with Bad once more by the fruit stand, talking quietly and under their breath. 

"I thought he was less. You know, uptight." George whispers indiscreetly to Bad.

"He usually is."

Dream catches wind of the conversation enough to stop tuning in. It wasn’t his business, anyway.

\--

His knuckles rupture against the doorframe, the wood creaking under the stance of waking the King up. _(when did ‘George’ go back to ‘the king’?)_ A shuffle creases the air behind the door, and the King opens it with a tired yawn.

His hair is ruffled, it’s clear he just woke up. With his hands dirtied and his shirt collar's draped over one shoulder, it's clear by the bags under his eyes, rimming them with exhaustion, that he didn’t sleep well, or if at all.

Dream swallows a gulp, forcing his eyes to not linger on the King’s exposed collarbone (you are pathetic, he internally scolds himself) and meets his eyes. 

“Alyssa has some matters she wishes to discuss with you once the sun rises.”

He groans. “Alright, tell her i’ll be out once I finish breakfast.”

Dream stops for a moment. “If you wish, I could ask the servants to bring breakfast into your room, Your highness?”

The King looks back at him, pleading eyes stuck to his face as he shuffles to tidy his disheveled room. “Please,”

Dream nods, about to leave. 

“Dream?”

Dream turns on his heel, sliding against the newly polished floor, peering back into the doorway. 

“Would you like to,” he pauses, stumbling over his words, “have breakfast with me?”

Dream’s caught off guard for a second, licking his top lip nervously. God, he wants to. He really wants to, but he’s afraid of what will happen if he does accept.

“I’m sorry your highness, I have matters to attend to.”

The King looks forlorn, eyebrows furrowing in defeat. His eyes are sad, but not surprised. “Oh, right. Yes, of course.”

“I apologise,”

“Nono,” he waves off, “Don’t apologise.”

Dream bites his inner cheek and turns on his heel to fulfill his task.

\--

Dream and the King sit the next breakfasts in the dining hall in silence. The air of professionalism not to be crossed that sits between them. The difference is that the King used to at least try to converse with Dream, but got no response. 

Now they sit quietly, the King giving up on any stupid friendship pursuits his mind feebly wanders about for and just picks at his food.

Dream thinks it's better this way.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello it is i again, haha. thank you to everyone that's commented so far first off, it really makes my day to wake up and see so many positive comments. second off, i prolly wont be updating this regularly, but i just got on thanksgiving break and i want to get the basics of their relationship and the plot stirring so i'll be writing quite a bit.
> 
> this is honestly not my best chapter, and i always struggle with chapter 2's LMAO, here's to chapter 3 and 4 being out soon. criticism is welcome!!
> 
> anyways as always, tysm for reading, and i'll see you in the next chapter, peace people <3
> 
> dont harass creators


	3. [Burn Wounds]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dream has a nightmare.

\--

Dream doesn’t see Sapnap for several more weeks. Not on the King’s terms, but more on his own. He’s not purposefully trying to avoid him; oh no nothing of the sort. It’s just between being a part of the King’s cabinet (Apparently his guard was considered part of the cabinet. Who knew?) and conflicting himself with pictures of the King his mind screenshotted, he’s been a bit busy.

Mentally. 

With the turmoil of the world, and the growing conflict with the neighbouring kingdom (how did that even start? Wasn’t it over some stolen melons?) Dream’s not really been in the best area to converse with. Anyone.

The next tournament, Dream purposefully sat out, as he does with every tournament. However, if the Announcer moves to call his name, he’d see he was sitting by the King and stop. His eyes glaze over to Sapnap, every once in a while. The poor boy looks lonely, resting his head on his palm with a relaxed posture and tired facial features. 

The King glances over to Dream every once in a while, seeing him wish he coil sit by his friends and clap back and make jokes. 

The King claps a hand on Dream’s shoulder, catching his eyes wandering again. “You can go sit by him, if you like.”

Dream tries not to shrug his hand off his shoulder (pretty sure doing that to the King was very rude) and shakes his head. “I have duties, your highness.”

He frowns and removes his hand, looking back to the match.

Dream really misses his friends.

\--

By the time he gets a break, the seasons have dimmed from bright, humid summer into wet, colourful autumn. Easily, he discards his armour by his stand in his room and makes for the door, wearing commoners clothes and his traditional mask.

He passes the King on the way out, who’s watering the flowers in the hallway. They shoot a glance at each other, and the King smiles politely to him, before turning back to watering the flowers.

The soldiers at the gate recognise Dream fully, he’s walked in and out enough times to become familiar, but rather than walk out through the front entrance, he makes for a side of the gate. Grasping his gloved hand onto the cobblestone, he pulls himself up the tall wall, sitting at the top for a brief moment before clattering down smoothly.

Sapnap meets him by the fountain, grinning from ear to ear. “I thought you died in there,”

Dream huffs. “So did I,”

Sapnap gestures for Dream to follow him, quietly dragging his feet against the path.

“Where are we going?”

“The library,” Sapnap calls behind him as Dream starts to follow his footsteps.

“Why?” 

Sapnap raises his eyebrows and turns a corner into the local library without further explanation.

Dream follows him, and seeing at the library was half empty, clips his mask off easily. The ribbon slides easily against itself as it slides out his palms and into his waiting hand.

He lets a breath of fresh air coat his lungs before he inevitably continues after Sapnap. 

“You’re George’s guard now right?”

Dream shushes him, reminding him there were still the occasional stragglers in the library, but nods. “Yes, obviously, what about it?”

“Well, I did some digging,”

Dream rolls his eyes. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Sapnap scoffs, moving into one aisle. The bookshelves tower up around them, chandelier by the opening providing light in the grand library.

Sapnap strategically pulls out a thick book, coated with its green leather cover, ripped at the edges and the dye wore into the fabric. He flips through it easily, landing on a page where a ripped piece of paper is folded and nestled in the crack between the two pages.

“Here,” Sapnap hands him the paper.

Dream gently unfolds it, careful hands undoing the creases of time and human structure.

“Look,” Sapnap points to the top of the paper where he’s etched something in ink. “Queen Martha was famously infertile,”

“But that’s his great grandmother?” Dream questions, eyes scanning the paper.

“Exactly, so they had to adopt a child in, his grandfather,”

“Right? Where is this going?” Dream questions.

“His grandfather was adopted, Dream. Not from here.” Sapnap pauses, waiting for the whirrs to go off in his head. “There aren’t any other human kingdoms.”

Dream opens his mouth, letting the gears click together.

“And get this, his father married his mother who was infertile,”

Dream licks his lips, looking at the paper in anticipation. “So you’re saying,”

“George is--” 

“Sir Dream?”

Dream swears under his breath, grabbing his mask from his other hand and tying the ribbon behind his head again, tucking the paper into his pocket. 

“Your majesty,” Dream swivels around to meet George’s eye, giving a deep bow and then lifting himself up. “I thought you were staying in today?” His heart is thundering in his chest, hoping he didn’t hear his and Sapnap’s conversation.

George frowns. “Unfortunately I was, but I had some errands to run,” He nods his head politely at Sapnap. “Sir Sapnap,”

“Your majesty,” Sapnap bows, and Dream can hear the waver in his voice, knowing there’s sweat pooling on his brow bone.

George purses his lips together and nods at the two of them. “Well, it was nice to see you. I’ll be uh-” he stammers over his words, socially anxious, “going now.”

Dream nods slowly and watches as George turns on his heel to leave.

They wait a few seconds before Dream turns to Sapnap, unclasping his mask again and laughing nervously.

“These are harsh claims, Sapnap,” Dream replies, once the laughter has died down. “That he’s a--”

“Yeah, I know.” 

Dream sighs. “I’ll-- I don’t want to butt into his business. The king's blood is not of my concern.”

Sapnap frowns but nods understandingly. 

“Right. Let’s go get something to eat then, I’m starving.”

“Christ I thought you’d never ask.” Just to clear his head of the questions, the millions that still lied unanswered.

Who  _ is  _ George?

\--

It’d been ages since he finally had a chance to revisit the pit again, the scrappy little arena everyone trained in. Squires, Knights who miss being a squire, even professionals in the army or the guard. Dream silently fidgets with his mask on his face, brushing the hair out of the little areas he could actually see through and standing on an opposing end of the dusty terrain.

Sapnap huffs a breath after a moment, pushing his dark hair out of his face. 

“You’ve been trained well,” Dream remarks.

Sapnap scoffs. “Oh please, you’re starting to sound like my father.”

Dream cackles a bit and walks over towards the fallen boy, grabbing his hand and lifting him up. He hands him his sword wordlessly and wipes the sweat off his brow beneath his mask.

Dream claps Sapnap on the shoulder, catching his own breath after a second, tossing his sword back into its scabbard. 

He sees him divert his attention towards the stands, where a meagre gardening boy-- one that looks Sapnap’s age-- sits, waving to Sapnap gleefully. Sapnap’s face breaks out into a grin and he nudges Dream. “My friend-” He starts.

“I’m not your father, go and have friends for all I care,” He laughs, to which Sapnap responds by clattering (stupidly and clunkily) towards the boy, lifting a foot over the wall and hopping onto it. 

Dream watches with mild amusement, eyes glazing as he watches the two interact friendly. Patiently, his eyes drifted around the arena for a second, frowning as he finds nobody there. Usually, George would at least show up, but he’s not here. And in town.

Maybe it was selfish, but Dream’s smile dropped a bit.

_ He’s the king,  _ Dream scolds himself,  _ he has better matters to attend to than to watch you frolic with Sapnap with your blades.  _

He frowns, then turns back to Sapnap who gestures him over.

Beneath the mask, he keeps his impassive expression, but he walks over anyways, intending to engage in polite conversation with someone other than the man taking up a significant part of his brain.

\--

People that take cold baths are monsters, Dream decides. Undeniably monsters. Immaculate, the art of finding the perfect temperature for their baths. A refined sculpture.

Dream scoffs at the dumb joke and sinks his head lower into the water, enjoying the silence bouncing off the walls of the bathroom. Not sharing a room with a bunch of horny, rowdy squires is a plus, but it’s lonely.

Water clears his thoughts, he’s always felt better off in the water. Safer, more at peace, at home.

He clears his throat a second and lets a breath clear his lungs of the polluted conversations from today. The steam slowly rising from the hot water clings to his skin like glue, dragging him down to the water.

Dream pushes a few strands out of his face and breathes heavily again, staring up at the ceiling. His thoughts still linger on his conversation with Sapnap, brain trying desperately to tie loose ends. 

He’s losing the battle, though, so many strands left up in the air and others that are debatable. 

He drags a hand down his face, pulling at his eyes frustratedly. Answers were hard to come across nowadays, not like they used to. Being younger was so much easier.

Dream quietly sinks into the water, blinking the molecules out of his eyes as he submerged himself fully. 

Sometimes he wonders what he got himself into, then remembers George’s smile.

Dream frowns and banishes the thoughts.

Maybe cold baths weren’t a bad idea, they froze and pricked the skin enough for you to forget the day.

Dream still thinks it’s a useless coping mechanism.

\--

Hollers litter the air around him, shrill screams that tear through your flesh into your bones. Dream-- is that his name?--’s snapped into his thoughts by the feel of a woman shoulder checking him, running for her life. With glazed-over eyes, he watches her movements, the way she runs as if her life depends on it and the crackle in the background.

He grips a tight blanket to his chest for a second, glazing back to the green wool in his hands. It smells so much like pine, like something he can’t remember. As if it means something, anything. His gaze lingers on it, watching the way the fibres melt from his hands, fire crackling and swallowing it whole.

He stares back up at the scene around him, with trembling hairs rising on the back of his neck and his throat becoming clogged with smoke as it smothers him. Crackles rise from the fire, scorching the houses clean of their wooden foundations and stripping the house he grew up in. The castle stands in the distance, blown to smithereens with the sounds of cannons echoing in the distance.

George stands quietly, watching the terror unfold around him, watching the castle fall to the ground, brick by brick. Watching his home be smothered by the fire and the people scorched alive. Singed into his arms are the reminders of his past. 

Both their arms.

It’s horrifying, watching the fire collect the smoke of the peoples past and watching everything burn down around him, debilitating his sense of self. Losing his place in the right of the world.

Amidst the chaos, Dream threatens to step towards George, who once was Sapnap. An age and a half ago.

George whirls around before he can do anything, clap him on the shoulder and say I’m sorry, or approach him at least. He’s breathing heavily, with the tears soaked into his eyes. Angry eyes, creased at the corners and his nose scrunched up. His eyebrows seem tired from being locked in a state of confusion and anger.

“You,” He accuses. “You did this?” His voice shatters symbolically, like he might just burn away now. As if this was just a dream.

But he remains, telling Dream to face his consequences. “I lived my whole life here,” He cries through the flames. “I loved here, I grew up here, and you take it from me?” 

“George-” Dream tries.

“No! Stay back,” George cries, standing away and huddling close to himself. “I don’t want to talk to a traitor.”

“George,” Dream tries, with the direct cause of his words burning a hole in his heart. 

He’s aware his skin is burning off, he’s aware the fires have gotten to him. He’s aware he’s trying to scream.

“Please!” He cries, fit of pain seizing against the very thing he swears to never be.

George says nothing, horrified as Dream melts alive, feeling every pain about it. Every way in the fire licking his skin and tearing his muscles off, turning his back towards him and running as quickly as he can to save himself.

Traitor, someone screams.

Traitor, another one cries as the flames swallow him whole.

\--

Dream pushes himself up to a seated position, gasping and clawing for air as cold sweat stains his brow. His chest rises up and down, fingers latching onto the mattress to steady himself.

When he sees he’s no longer in his dream, his breathing slows. The fire in chest dulls down to a frightening ache and his lungs heave for air slower. He lets his fingers unclasp the mattress from his death grip, collapsing backwards. 

His back collapses onto the pillow softly, leaving Dream stone cold in his manoeuvres. He feels like a statue, afraid to move or to speak as he frantically searches to fill his lungs with air again. 

Dream lets his shivering hands rest on his chest a moment, gathering his scattered thoughts and staring up at the ceiling.

He was calm now, but at the price of sleep.

After a few solid minutes of breathing quietly to himself, staring at the empty ceiling, Dream shuffles quietly out of his bed.

His feet meet the cold floor slowly, the pinpricks of ice more real than the fear from earlier. It’s a welcome change, but certainly not the most physically comfortable one.

Dream blinks the tears out of his eyes, trying to adjust to the low light. His hand fumbles for a second, slowly moving towards the table in the middle of the room and grabbing a candle. With the other free hand, he grabs the fire striker, hears the click of the strike and hears the fire quietly burst into life onto the candle.

Dream sighs for a second, holding the candle by the bottom and gently moving towards the door.

The floorboards are loud, something you don’t realise when you’re out in the open and have nothing to hide. He technically doesn’t have anything to hide, but he doesn’t want to wake anyone. 

His fingers lock under the door handle for a second, hesitating on the metal before pulling the door open as quietly as he can manage.

The hallways look emptier in the dark.

Without the light filtering in through giant windows and illuminating the plants hanging or sitting all around, it looks empty. Hollow, like a grave, carved for someone not yet dead.

Dream’s heart plummets into his stomach at the notion and considers turning back, but he’ll never get sleep and it’s better to at least move his legs.

Most of all, he was curious.

Quietly, he shuts the door behind him and continues forwards, tugging at the sleeves of his tunic. The candlelight offers a bit of heat in the bitter darkness, but it flickers and the wind threatens it’s life with every passing blow.

Quietly, Dream moves a few steps forwards into the endless darkness. With his makeshift torch aimed at the floor, he carefully sidesteps a few plants and ducks from others hanging on the wall. 

The moonlight offers a bit of luminescence under the cloaked darkness, but not nearly enough for Dream to see more than 5 feet ahead of him.

With a gentle passing glance, he stops in front of a window. It’s open, but the breeze is calm but chill. Not enough to put out his flickering flame, but enough to threaten it.

The moonlight is soft, drenching the town in liquid blues, like a soft sky that fell and drowned the shadows of their misery. Dream swallows for a moment, letting himself relax as he looks over the kingdom he grew up in, then continues forward without a second thought.

He redirects his torch to the walls now, careful to not make a lot of noise when he accidentally steps into a pot or bangs his head against a shelf. While the sounds rattle the air, there’s no response from anyone nearby.

Dream sighs softly, turning his light from the floors to the walls again, steering himself slowly and calmly.

It’s when he turns his torch on a familiar door that he freezes. 

It’s a wide double-door, with gold flaked frames and with a wooden door of much better quality than the rusty one Dream deals with.

It wouldn’t be a problem, but the doors are open.

Dream, morbid curiosity over his duties overwhelming him, steps inside a few paces.

The curtains are drawn, flying gently in the wind. The moonlight shines a lovely light over the room, which is left hardly touched-- like nobody really lives here. Not really.

The bed is empty. The covers tossed aside haphazardly.

Dream’s heart drops.

\--

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter than usual this time, prolly the next one will be short too but we're finally getting into some plot intricacies !!
> 
> as always tysm for reading, dont harass creators and i'll see you lot in the next update
> 
> peace


	4. [Moonlight]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> george goes for a stroll.

\--

Dream’s feet pound as he races through the castle, lining the walls with his torch and the light dimmed from the wind that flies past. Heart in his throat, he's muttering curses to himself, looking around every corner and crevice, checking behind every barrel and in every room. He woke up a few servants at some point, murmuring apologies as he closed the door and ran off. 

Quickly, he made his way down to the next floor, his footsteps disturbing the once quiet air, now lidded with Dream’s panic. He had one job: one job! 

How did he not hear him? What happened? Where is he?

Dream pants heavily, skidding around a corner and knocking into plants. He groans, hopping on his foot for a second before continuing off, scattered plants and knocked over barrels the only sign someone has been there.

He peers out the window, clear it’s a feeble attempt to scour the castle for the king. He grumbled and feebly sniffs out the torch, dropping the candlestick onto the ground as he made way to stick his foot through the open window.

He must look like a madman, Dream thinks for a second, before deciding it didn’t matter and sticking the rest of him out into the cool air.

It’s only the second story, but there’s a partial roof sloping down which Dream has to fumble with his hands to latch onto so he doesn’t slip. His feet hit the part where the roof flattens, letting the friction drag him forwards.

Hesitantly, he releases one of his hands' death grip from the tiles on the roof, looking down anxiously. 

It’s certainly at least 12 feet down, double his height. A rocky pebble floor doesn’t help Dream’s landing either.

He’s survived worse, Dream decides, hesitantly letting his sweaty palm slip off the tile as he stands with his two feet on the very tight area where the roof is flat.

Then he jumps before he can overthink it, curling into a ball and watching for a split second as the air whirls around him before he drops into the ground. 

He lands back first, slapping out with his arms and letting his feet loll behind him.

It looks stupid, in retrospect, but he certainly doesn’t feel the impact as much as if he fell face first. His back is aching with a familiar pain, and he shuffles upwards hesitantly. Wiggling his ankles, his feet are uninjured, only his back, which is sure to be scratched and stained by sharp rock marks later.

“...Hello?” A voice calls out.

Dream looks around to the side of the castle, manoeuvring his feet in the direction of the whispered voice. 

He rounds the castle towards the side gardens, finding George peering at him curiously.

“...George?”

George furrows his eyebrows, placing a name to a face he hadn’t seen behind that mask before. His eyes are carefully tracing his face, and Dream is left painfully naked in the face of the King.

“Dream?” 

They both stare at each other for a second, bewildered as to why the other is out there.

“What are you-” He breathes, catching back the air knocked from his lungs, “-What are you doing out here?” Dream replied gruffly, tensely removing his hand from his scuffed back.

“I could ask you the same,” George replies, moving his feet specifically to avoid the flowers.

“I was looking for you, your highness.”

George furrows his eyebrows. “Me? Why?”

“You weren’t in your bed, sir, and I assumed the worst.”

George chuckles delicately, “Why were you peering into my room?"

Dream purses his lips quietly. “I had a nightmare and was wandering the halls, your doors were open.”

George’s smile drops. “Oh.” He turns back to the garden. “I tend to the flowers at this hour because I have no time in the day.”

Dream’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Why don’t you ask the servants to do it?” His formality dropped, George’s shoulders relax a bit.

“Come,” he merely replied, “I should’ve told you this from the beginning, anyways.”

Dream follows quietly through the cobblestone path that whirls around the flowers. George is careful not to step on any flowers, light and quick on his feet without the normal kingly attire dragging him down to the earth. He looks as if he could float up and fly right now if he wanted.

The flowers look better in the moonlight, Dream admits, letting his eyes glaze over rainbows and assortments of colours he’s never even seen before. It’s arranged randomly like it was supposed to be in colour order but mother nature let the harness go and let the flowers grow wildly. 

The garden splits from flowers into a small little part, with trees covering the rooftop and a small fountain in the middle too. Something Dream never noticed. It was a lot larger than the small flower garden that barely peeked around the front of the castle, and they diverged into a full out private park now.

The tree's rooftop dimmed the moonlight, but George held a lantern carefully, moving towards the fountain.

“My mother made this garden,” George starts, staring at the fountain as Dream catches up. “Spent most of her days out here, tending to the animals, the flowers, everything.”

Dream listens along quietly, taking his hands out of his pockets. 

“When she died she,” George takes a deep breath to keep from losing his composure, “she asked me to tend to it until I had someone else to pass it off to.”

“...Oh,” Dream breathes, unsure what to say.

“It’s the last part of her I have,” George remarks slowly and sadly, the cracks in his voice resounding throughout the quiet chirps of nighttime. “I miss her.” He finishes quietly.

Dream doesn’t know what to do, now, staring at George whose face is contorted and twisted in pain to keep from crying.

“My mother died young,” Dream starts, without meaning to, “I didn’t know her very well, all I really had of her was a blanket that burned in a house fire a while ago. It’s just me and my sister now.”

“I’m sorry,” George automatically replies.

“Don’t be, I’m the one trying to sympathize with you here,” Dream cracks a wary smile at George, who smiles hesitantly. 

“Right.” He explains, gently placing the lantern down on a bench nearby and sitting down.

Dream sits next to him, and for a while they sit quietly, watching the world turn around them.

At some point a bunny darts through the brushes, crickets chirping as the leaves ruffle. Squirrels hurry up trees, preparing for Winter. The moonlight cracks through thin leaves and heavy treetops, dusting the floor with an uneven pattern of flowers.

“The garden looks nice, if it’s any tribute to her. She’d be proud.” Dream tries. 

George smiles weakly, still staring in front of him. “Thanks.”

\--

“So...” George tried after a moment of silence, his gaze lingering around the deserted flower patch. Dream follows his gaze, which lands on a pair of calla lilies, crowded amongst each other and swaying quietly to the moon’s quiet tune. 

“So?” Dream asks in the silence between them, the air clouded by shredded moon tunes and gentle breezes swaying only under dim forest lights and between crickets chirps. 

It’s quiet out here, and though he’s stifling and swallowing down yawns every other second, he can see the appeal in the way the fireflies blink in and out of the spotlight. 

“So that’s what you look like?” George takes a breath, moving his eyes back to Dream’s, observing him for the first time. His eyes are a warm, chocolate brown muddled with blue waves in the lower iris. Something nobody likely noticed, but their bodies were close enough to observe every detail of each other. “Behind the mask?” He finishes in his breath. 

“Well,” Dream splutters over his words, “Yeah, I guess,” He’s aware of the proximity, it’s far too stifling and suffocating for his liking, but he supposes getting to observe the strange colour of the King’s brown-blue iris’ is worth being observed closely for the first time in ages.

He’s sure the nervous flush on his face is burning so hard George can feel it, so he feels a sense of shame when George reels his distance back a second. He drags his hand to the back of his neck and shifts backwards.

George only hums a second, tracing the outline of Dream’s face mentally and then turning back to the lilies. He doesn’t push further, so Dream upholds the conversation himself. “People don’t expect it,” He stops for a second, gathering his discarded thoughts and stringing them into a weak sentence. “My face, I mean. Most assume I’m hiding under the mask.” 

He thinks for a moment. “A deformity, perhaps.”

“Then why?” George asks, lacklustre, his laconic tone peering through the undercoat of the pretence of being King. 

“Hm?” Dream hums, letting his eyes wander a bit of his own. A wisteria tree peeks through the tall grass and the thin underbrush. The flowers dangle in the wind slowly, at peace. 

“Why wear the mask?” George clarifies. 

“Well,” He starts, recalling the story to the forefront of his mind, “A while back, Squire training back,” He turns his gaze to George, who’s watching him start the story carefully, “I had deformed gear. Disposable, nearly.” 

“My father couldn’t afford anything better, I was stuck with a broken helmet that left me with more concussions than fingers I have to count them on.” A light chuckle ghosts the air past his lips, “One day I got irritated with it and took this old bone I found in the ground, refined it into something that fit my face and drew a smiley face with some ink. It kind of stuck ever since.” Even now he could still remember tracing the bone to an outline that fit his face, and splotching ink from his quill onto it to make a smile. It was so careless, and every once in a while he needs to dunk the brittle bone mask under some water to rinse the blood off of it and clean the cracks. Once a month he replenishes the ink, letting it dry.

“It’s your brand,” George remarks. 

“Sort of,” Dream humbles himself. He knows full well it is.

The conversation lulls into silence for a while, the only sound drifting between them is the empty air and the sound of nature. 

“Apologies, by the way,” George starts, breathing it out suddenly like it hurt to keep on his tongue.

“For what?” Dream presses carefully. 

George purses his lips then presses them into a thin line. His tongue swipes out and licks his bottom lip, turning away with all the confidence of a mouse to its predator. “In the beginning, I was really pushy, and Bad—“

Dream cuts him off, finishing for him. “Just wanted you to have a friend.” He pauses. “It's alright, I got it.”

George looks bewildered for a moment, glancing at him for a second before darting his eyes back to the rushing water rustling the calm of the fountain pool. “How’d you know?”

“You're a tad transparent,” Dream grins through his words and he can hear George form a smile in his response too.

“A tad?” He presses teasingly, the smile creasing his cheeks and leaving dimples Dream didn’t know were there. 

“Alright,” He sighs dramatically, “a lot.”

George giggles and it sounds stupid to think-- but it’s not like the girlish kind of giggle a pretty lad does as she represses her actual laugh, but more like a more delicate, softer laugh that reeks of George’s quiet personality. Stifles the air and clogs Dream throat with the sound.

God, what fumes did moonshine clog his brain with?

“Yeah,” George huffs through his nose, “That’s something I've heard before.” It looks like he's about to start a story, so Dream shifts his position for a second and George rolls his eyes. Readability in comfort was always easier for the commoner's eye, and George was comfortable. 

“My mother used to hide the sweets around the castle— since I would always steal it from the servants.” Dream scoffs through a grin, knowing full well he was hypocritically reminiscing on the same memory with his father. “Of course I always found it, but she’d always know when I did.”

 _“” George,”_ she’d ask, _“did you eat the cookies?”_ and I’d always say no— but she could see right through me.” His smile drops. “Every time.”

“I miss her.” He reiterates, voice quiet. Not broken, not shattered like the fragility of glass. But quiet, dimmed. Like a flame flickering out.

“My father used to take me out training,” Dream starts, aware he needs a distraction, “just me and my younger sister, we’d ride through fields for ages, always arriving home tired and laughing after dark.”

“Home is always better than anywhere else,” George remarks, moving his voice to a mumble. It’s strained, and the strings dictating his language are pulled taut. 

Being King doesn’t excuse you from being human.

“Usually, at least.” George finishes. 

Dream sits in silence for a moment, hoping he could use a distraction to his favour. His goal in this conversation had evolved and devolved multiple times to the point of it being formless.

“What was... your father like if you don’t mind me asking?” He knows he’s treading on thin ice with this question, George’s face contorting quickly from pain to something unrecognisable. Something formed after years of endurance under the tense of a crown.

“He was strict, always angry. Favoured my sister over me.” His strings are pulled thin, keeping the words lacking and few in nature. “He was still my father, though.”

It’s an afterthought that leaves Dream thinking for a second, before quietly moving the subject. “Understandable, I lived most of my life in a small cottage outside the city walls.” His smile quivers for a moment, remembering the old farm. “I’d wake up at the crack of dawn to do chores, and take naps at noon in the field. Mother always wanted a dog, but this stray cat landed on our doorstep and all 3 of us begged her to take her in.”

“I always wanted a cat,” George remarks, trying to add the little he could to the conversation. He wasn’t stupid, Dream recognised, he knew it was unbalanced, however, many limits were being pushed. 

“I’m pretty sure a few farms sell some animals that they can’t take care of anymore,” Dream remarks this with half confidence, but he knows the full reality that there aren’t that many farms outside the walls. Not like when he was younger.

“What, like adopting?” George verbally quirks his head, interested in the notion.

“Yeah, adopting,” Dream stands up for a second, “If you wish to put it that way.” His bones feel sore at the place where they conjoin and he reaches a hand above his head to stretch a second, seeing George follow his pace.

“Are you asking me to adopt a cat with you?” He grins through his words, dimples appearing on his cheeks again. Dream laughs it off, following him at a distance as they retreat back into the castle as quietly as two blokes having a midnight conversation could. 

“Take me on a date first,” He replies without thinking.

George trips over his words for a second, not used to the notion Dream had accidentally suggested. Dream opens his mouth to defend himself a second, before the King full-heartedly laughs, trying to hold it down for a moment before giving up. “A man of quality,” He tries, ignoring the petrified look that Dream had on his face at the implications.

Dream lets out a large sigh, breath deflating his chest and his tense shoulders. “Who would I be if I didn't take my king out on a date first? Where are my manners?” He lets a grin loosely top his face after the adrenaline runs its course through his body.

They walk through the stairways in silence, the only sound is the occasional wisp of curtains fluttering against open window sills or the flicker of flames dying on their candlesticks. It’s not a tense silence, but one that greets you with hesitant, but open arms. 

They’re not friends.

“So.” Dream starts the conversation up again, still curious to see what went on in this mans head. George doesn’t turn to look at him but hums back.

“So?” he responds back.

“What do you plan to do, as King?” Dream treads lightly.

George hesitates for a moment, picking at the candlestick he picked up earlier and letting his tracks slow. He thinks for a long, slow minute as they walk through the hallways, wandering past plants and mushrooms and everything in between.

“I don't know honestly,” He replies frankly. “I’ve spent so many years thinking about what I’d do, but now that I have the crown on my head and people call me king, I have no idea.”

“That’s fair,” Dream mumbles. He knows what he’d do as King, he has a few ideas lingering in the back of his mind that maybe he could try and persuade George to get along with. But he’s not the king, he’d never understood. 

“It just sprung on me so quick, I-,” He breathes, calming his natural stutter, “I'm still processing. I suppose my goal is to just be the best I can for my people.”

Dream pauses in his footing, clenching his teeth in thought for a moment. George whirls around to face him, the flame darting to follow it’s wick. “What does that mean to you?”

George blinks for a moment, hooded eyes showcasing his tiredness but he still puts thought into it. “No conflict,” He replies honestly, after a few moments of staring Dream down with soft, purified eyes turning darker with sin by the day.

Ways of kings, he supposed.

“Father started-” He pauses, “He started so many wars. Too many wars. I don’t- I don’t want that. Not for me, not for everyone else,”

“Not like your father?” Dream has his hands clasped behind his back, teasing the already thinned ice, seeing how far he can skate before he crashes and falls. 

“....No.” George finally murmurs, turning back around to continue walking. “Not like my father.”

Dream doesn’t miss the tired glint in his eye and the soft yawn he suppresses. “It’s getting late your highness, we should both probably head to bed before the sun rises.”

“Yeah.” George agrees, his social quota exceeded for the day as he retracted back into his shell. 

It’s only a few more minutes of dulled silence before they reach the hallway where George’s door is still left ajar and Dream’s, hardly closed.

“I’ll see you in the morning then, Dream.” George addresses him, holding the candle lightly and watching the flame die a little.

“You too, George.” 

George nods politely towards him, snuffing out the candle and quietly closing his door behind him.

Dream stares at it for a moment and a half before walking back to his room.

\--

Dream’s still haunted by the remnants of his nightmare when he lies on his bed, letting the thoughts cloud his mind for a moment. A clouded head always got in the way of practice, never allowing himself more than a wisp of a thought to humour himself during battles. 

But now he was here. In silence.

Alone with his thoughts, and nobody to judge him but himself.

\--

George clogs the gears in his head until the sun rises over the horizon.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO ive been having absolutely AWFUL WRITERS BLOCK for a solid 80 something years and i finally forced myself to write a chapter HAKJSDN  
> 1) hello to all new readers :D thank you all for the comments and kudos, i enjoy talking to you guys  
> 2) someone made fanart!! jfc im pretty sure i cried when i saw this (in a positive way) because it was so good, so here https://twitter.com/minfymo/status/1333529649985576961?s=20  
> 3) if you want to contact me or talk to me outside of ao3, my twitter is @raytick4  
> 4) thank you all for sticking with me for the short but plot heavy chapters, longer and more intricate chapters to come :D i hope you guys have enjoyed thus far and im excited to get this story on the road. 
> 
> as always dont harass creators and i'll see you next time, peace!


	5. [Of Me Without You]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tensions grow between two kingdoms.

\--

Sometimes Dream thinks the morning sun is a curse. It’s too heavy to be draining him of energy, and the sun sears at his skin.

With his back pressed firmly against the dipping mattress and his arm slung over his forehead, the sunlight peeking through curtains drench the room in an unfamiliar energy. It drains the life out of the moonshine and the thoughts that are brimming with danger. Some that stuck to him, some that washed away. 

It has to be at least September by now, Dream idly wonders. In July, he accepted the offer of being a guard.  _ His  _ guard. The leaves fall earlier this year, turning beautiful colours quicker than most years. It can’t be November yet, He believes. It can’t be.

Dream rocks on his heels when he slips out of bed, knowing his perception of time is now long thrown to waste. Two months of complete tireless isolation, and only now does he let the ropes loosen their vice grip on him. Only now does he let those ropes of his own personal restraints let go and let him explore who the king really is. Out of his own morbid curiosity. 

Getting out of bed was awful then, and it’s awful now. Back when he trained squires it was awful, and now when he protects the king it’s awful. 

He gently slips his chilled feet into socks and then into his pleather boots, tugging at the dirty white tunic he wore to bed and the linen pants that were dyed a messy brown. He climbs a hand through his hair, tugging through the knots before slipping a hair tie through the long hair and pulling it into a small ponytail. He grabs his mask on the way out, clicking the buckle at the back as he makes his way into the hallway. 

The door creaks quietly behind him, brittle wood hanging onto the frame for dear life. The cobblestone scuffs his heels as he makes his way to the Kings room, not completely unsolicited on his part as he knocks to make sure he hasn’t yet snuck off without him.

There’s a groan from behind the door, followed by a mumbled: “come in.”

Dream pushes the door open quietly, watching as the king uncordially sweeps out of bed. His covers are tossed aside and his hair is ruffled and messy. It sticks up a bit as George fumbles to flatten it, rubbing his other free hand over tired eyes. It looks almost petulant, Dream covers softly, childish in the way he stumbles around the room. 

“My king,” He snickers quietly to himself, “Do you need assistance?”

George grumbles, flopping his body back onto the covers. “Please,” he mumbles. 

Dream walks over smoothly towards the dresser, furrowing his eyebrows as he struggles to find the cape.

“If it helps, you can take off the mask to see. The capes likely in the bottom dresser, god knows where Marie places it.”

Dream pulls the mask up to the top of his face, letting it push back the loose strands that bounced in his face as he shuffled through the messy clothes. 

God, this was really fucking embarrassing, he remarks as he pushes past a few shirts and pulls out the cape. He drags the drawer closed, knowing full well his face is a single word from bursting into wild, uncontrollable flames.

He murmurs curses to himself, handing the cape to George, who’s finally found the energy to sit up as he fumbles with a new shirt and under-clothes. 

“Thank you,” George replies politely, his voice still raw from sleep and raspy from lack thereof.

“Slept well?” Dream questions.

“Hardly,” He murmurs, clasping the golden chain of the cape around his throat and immediately pulling a disgusted face.

“I imagine our discussion caused that?”

George turns away, a hint of what looks to be a skirmish behind his eyes reflecting his battling thought process. 

“Not particularly, no. Just stayed up late. Thinking.” He adds in.

Dream wonders, for a split second, if he was thinking of him. If he was as curious about him as he was with George.

“About what?” Dream tempts.

George sighs through his teeth. “My birthday.”

Dream frowns. Right. “Oh,” he reiterates. “Is it that soon?”

“Two months, but the guards are up my ass,” He breathes a cut off laugh, “Excuse my french, about it.” 

Dream tsks, rolling his eyes as he slips the mask back down. “Is it supposed to be that important?”

That was rude, Dream mumbles to himself as he hears his statement leave his lips. “More than usual, I mean.”

George waves a hand, sliding his boots on. “I’m nearly 24, Dream. I should have a wife by now. My poor advisor is pestering me about it constantly. People will start to talk.”

Dream clears his throat. “With all due respect, they already are.”

George swears under his breath.

“I can request Bad to back off for a while? If it will make you feel better.”

George shakes his head limply, though it looks like he’s lying with his actions. “No, he's in good heart to think so.”

“You are the King, sir,” Dream reiterates as if it’s a shocking fact, “There isn’t anyone of higher authority than you. If people talk, so be it. A wife is necessary but your ruling is...” he pauses, “of higher tier.”

George looks a slight bit more relaxed, still however tense in his back despite his shoulders dropping. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

There’s a beat of silence, George glancing at his feet before turning back to Dream. “Could you request the servants bring food up?”

George doesn’t need to explain for Dream to nod. “And I know I perhaps might be pushing but,” George starts, as Dream moves to leave. “Could you stay? I imagine eating in the dining hall is quite lonely.”

Though his words are aimed to sympathise with Dream, he knows he desperately just wants to speak with someone. Where was his sister? 

Dream, against the walls he built up solidly over the past few months, nods. “Yeah, sure, of course,” He remembers his mask and fixes it on his face, thinking he should probably rewrite the ink. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

George sighs, full of relief. “Thank you.”

\--

The bed dips under the two’s weight, and while George doesn’t really dent the bed with his smaller frame, the furniture jumps under Dreams weight, not being lanky or overweight. Rather, years of knight training. George giggles at the premonition as Dream groans in displeasure, fighting the embarrassment off his face.

The plate is set between them, some eggs and chunks of bread. There’s some fish there too, but both of them agree that fish isn’t quite the best food, and leave it be to smell horribly in peace.

Dream slips the mask up and off his face resting it in his lap as he dots the previous fading ink stains with new drops of black liquid, quill rattling against the glass jar and looping the ink around the end of the tip. The ink splotches a bit, some parts with ink bunched together, and other parts where the ink is dragged out. It looks rather messy from an outsider, but George watches the movement carefully, watching the way Dreams hand fumbles around the outline of previously wiped ink. 

He bites into the bread a bit, digging his teeth into the food, and when Dream looks up, he quietly remarks to himself that George’s canines are ever so slightly sharp.

He slaps himself mentally, futile in its efforts to forget the notion and looks back down, licking his lips in concentration and embarrassment. 

“How often do you have to do that?” George mumbles through a piece of bread at the ink coating his palm and Dream chuckles, seeing how unprofessional he could be behind closed doors. It radiates an entirely humanistic aura off of him Dream often forgot about Kings.

Was his father like this? Or was it just him?

“Every month or two,” he remarks, still a bit fidgety with his mask off for someone other than Sapnap or his sister.

“Does ink often fade into bone?”

Dream shakes his head. “I have to clean it of…” He hesitates for a moment, “Blood, every once in a while, and the ink smudges off.”

George frowns at the honesty. “Oh.”

“It’s a dirty job, being a Knight,” Dream remarks softly, entirely not proud of it, hoping he hasn’t quite ruined everything yet.

“I-” George frowns again, biting into the bread to keep himself from saying anything he’d regret. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He can’t tell if it’s sarcastic, but he doesn’t have the will to ask, so he lulls the conversation back into a safety silence. As ink drags against bone and bread rips from between teeth.

He thinks he doesn’t really like being this friendly with a King, it was always so much easier with Sapnap.

God, if only Sapnap saw him now.

\--

George despises cabinet meetings, Dream learns quick. From having to wear a heavy crown (try wearing a full suit of armour, Dream remarks under said suit.) and a cape that didn’t fit him, he hates being a King.

It’s obvious.

Today, however, is different.

George isn’t  _ bouncing  _ in his step to the meeting any more than usual, but the look of fear on the advisors faces as he enters the room leaves both their stomachs dropping. George adapting the same look as he walks to his seat, and Dream's eyebrows pulling themselves together as he quietly stands behind him.

There’s a silence for a moment, before Bad clears his throat. 

“I’m sure we all know why we’re here today,” Bad replies, knowing full well nobody knew why an emergency meeting was called halfway through the month.

“It’s- uhm-” Bad clears his throat.

Someone else stands up, a guy nicknamed Velvet or something, Dream quietly thinks. He interrupts Bad sympathetically, seeing the man stumble over his words.

Nobody quite wants to break whatever news there is to the King. “Tensions are running high between us and Wravanoid. We’re afraid they might declare war despite our peaceful efforts.”

George’s face drains of colour. “Why?”

It’s Bad who speaks again, “Their rulers are-- well they’re fighting a sort of leadership battle between themselves and the current one,”

“Jschlatt, they call him,” Velvet offers.

“-Seems to just want to watch the world burn.”

“And take our crops, our land, our animals, and our people,” Velvet continued.

George flattens his lips, sucking a breath in beneath his bottom lip and quietly placing his head in his hands.

“Sir?” Dream offers, normally silent in these meetings.

“Give me a moment”, George murmurs, quiet enough for only Dream to hear. “I need a moment to think.”

Bad offers a worried look towards Dream, who shakes his head.

Everyone sits down quietly, the weight of the room pushing them down into the ground.

George drags a hand down his face and breathes a shaky exhale, sitting back up properly. “Bad, I need a piece of paper and a quill.”

Bad nods and stands again up out of his seat, grabbing a blank paper from the shelves on the side and handing him a quill and ink. 

“Your majesty?” Ant asks, curiously.

George hesitates his quill over the ink, fingers wobbling on the quill slightly, a slight action that stops as soon as he drags the quill tip in and out of the ink, watching it drop excessively back into the jar and dragging it towards the paper.

He scribbles onto the paper some words, written in fancy handwriting that gave Dream a struggle to see through the mask, only able to make out the words. 

_ To his royal highness, Jschlatt. _

Dream hesitates, placing a wary hand on George’s shoulder, who flinches a bit and looks up at Dream.

He’s worried for a moment if he’s overstepping. “My King, you don’t have to. You could send someone else.”

George looks at him for a moment, eyes flitting about the ink on his mask he saw him draw onto today. Then he shakes his head.

“No, I have to talk to him myself.”

Dream goes silent in the face of his forced stubbornness, then draws his hand back to return back to his corner.

It only takes him a few minutes to finish writing, though time stretches out the encounter to feel like several tense hours. 

He wraps the scroll with nimble fingers, plucking a ribbon from the side of his cape and wrapping it neatly around the scroll. He seals the ribbon with finality and stands up, handing it to Dream with lingering, hesitant fingers as Dream takes it from his hand. 

“Give it to a man named Karl Jacobs, he’ll know where to deliver it.”

Dream nods slowly, then quietly leaves the room, aware of the eyes burning into the back of his head. 

\--

It’s still relatively warm when Dream steps outside the castle, the market bustling already despite it being only 10 in the morning (roughly). Wearing full armour walking through the market was a bit annoying, so he strips to his plain tunic and pants, exchanging his belt for a tool belt and holding the letter firmly in his hands. He drags the mask down his face and steps outside, fumbling with the shoulder blades he hurriedly forgot to discard.

He has no idea what this Karl Jacobs guy looks like-- he hasn’t a clue, so he searches for Sapnap first. Sapnap’s relatively popular-- he should likely know this guy, hopefully, he could scout him out. And besides, Dream knows Sapnap’s movements a lot better than a strangers, he knows he’s probably at the pit at this hour, so he strides off that way.

As expected, Sapnap’s there in the pit, standing face to face with Technoblade himself. With pity, yet curiosity, Dream steps down the stairs and into the pit with an expectancy of someone noticing him soon. He leans against the quartz wall, watching them duel before Techno notices him first.

Techno stops, backing up and gesturing to Dream for Sapnap to see, who lifts up his mask and wears a tired, but an amused expression.

“Come to see the show?”

“Do you know a kid named Karl Jacobs?” He cuts to the point. 

Sapnap’s face heats up a little bit and Dream snorts audibly. Okay, so he did.

“No I-”

“Sapnap, I just need to deliver a letter, it’s fine.”

Sapnap raises his eyebrows, murmuring an apology to Techno and walking over to him. “From who?”

“The King.”

“What does he want with him?”

Dream drags a hand down his face. “He needs Jacobs to deliver a letter to Wravanoid.”

Sapnap splutters over his words. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Dream mocks teasingly, knocking his shoulder into Sapnap’s. “Now where is he?”

Sapnap looks around for a moment, eyes locking around the stadium at random intervals. “He usually comes to my matches, but he’s probably at that flower shop, the one by the park bench. You know the one.”

Dream does. “Thanks. Oh and, if you don’t mind?”

Sapnap, who’s about to leave, looks back to Dream. 

“Kick Techno’s ass for me.”

Sapnap grins widely and slides his helmet back on, shooting him a thumbs up and cascading down the stairs again to face Techno.

Dream sighs and turns away, noting to ask Sapnap about this Jacobs kid later, and going off to find the said kid.

\--

He opens the door to the shop easily, bells ringing above as he passes through the doorway.

A relatively tall young man is behind the counter, grumbling words beneath his breath before looking up. He thinks he’s seen this guy at several of Sapnap’s matches before, but he’s unsure. He quietly steps up to the counter and clears his throat, noting that he’s still taller than him.

“The King requests you deliver this message to King Jschlatt of Wravanoid.”

Karl stutters for a second, mouth agape and struggling for words as he takes the letter in his gloved hands.

“Yes, right, yeah.” He fumbles, struggling to not pick at the ribbon.

“Don’t pick at the ribbon.” Dream demands. Karl holds his free hand up in surrender and nods. 

“Sorry, Sorry,”

There’s a beat, then Dream swivels on his feet to get out of this musty little shop, stepping back in the park that lined the city’s walls.

The door closes behind him slowly, and he walks back into the market without much of a second thought. 

He rounds the area out of the park and looks towards the pit, unsure if he should go back to George or go and pester Sapnap like he was his mother or something.

Still, he places his friends over his duties and makes way to the pit. 

\--

He arrives back at the castle only half an hour later, the sun still up in the sky and reaching its peak rather quickly. The days seem too thin, and Dream idly wonders if fall will come earlier this year than last year.

He moves past the gates easily, giving an easy wave to the guard and walking up the path towards the entrance. The bridge that crosses the river splitting the castle and the city creaks with age for a moment as Dream traverses it.

Movement peers into the back of his vision, and he swears he saw someone move towards the garden. He changes his path towards it, carefully manoeuvring through the flowers as he makes his way back into the forest where the trees block the sun.

Dream finds George sitting quietly on the bench, watching the water flow with eyes brimming with thought.

It takes him a moment to notice Dream standing there, and he sighs. “Sorry,”

“Don’t be,” Dream responds, gently moving his mask to be more comfortable on his face. 

George’s eyes watch the water for a moment before he stands up again. “I’m going for a walk, would you like to accompany me?”

Dream doesn’t show much hesitation. “Of course.” 

\--

Dream’s acutely aware that George is very sensitive to noise, watching as his face twists up in pain when he realises he’s caught the rush of the market for the day. Though, despite Dream’s pestering, they stay on the road. Sound overwhelming your senses being better than your own thoughts.

At some point, they run into Sapnap.

“Yoo, Dream,” Sapnap calls, seeing Dream before anyone else. To be fair, he sticks up a bit in the crowd, and his mask is recognisable. 

“Sapnap,” Dream delivers. “Done with your date?”

“Wh- I-” Sapnap splutters. “Dream-”

Dream cackles, his laughter ever as devoid of breath and wheezy as usual. Sapnap groans and turns to George with an unamused glint in his eyes.

“Hello,” he replies.

George blinks at him, waiting for the formal address and sighs. “Hi.”

Sapnap blinks at him for a second before realisation grazes his face. “Oh sh- I’m sorry, your majesty,”

Dream breaks out into a fit of wheezes, placing his hands on his knees and doubling down. “SAPNA-” His voice is cut off by his own wheezing.

“Shut up, oh my god,” Sapnap cackles, to which George rolls his eyes with a fond smile and the beginnings of a laugh spreading on his cheeks. 

“It’s alright,” George snickers. “It happens.”

Dream has to gasp for air as he stands up, coughing to get air back into his lungs. “You’re such an idiot,”

“Oh yeah? Pit, right now, I’ll double uppercut you before you can pray for forgiveness,”

Dream laughs, less like a wheeze this time as it sounds closer to a normal laugh. “Yeah, sure, uh huh,”

George stands behind Dream patiently, swallowing down laughs from a conversation he wasn’t a part of. Dream has to clear his throat eventually, remembering the King was still there. “Sorry,” He remarks again, “We should get going,”

“Sapnap can come with us, if he wants,” George remarks.

Dream raises an eyebrow behind the mask and shrugs. “Alright, Sap?”

“Yeah, why not?”

\--

Dream was never very fond of taverns, the dry scent of wine that lingered and the stale bread passed between drunken blokes. The bustling atmosphere was never really Dream’s thing. From the way George is nervously shifting in his seat by the window, it’s not his either.

Sapnap, though, fits in easily. He passes some grapes over to George idly, as if they were best friends, who engage in friendly conversation. 

Though Dream was sitting just next to George, he couldn’t hear the man speak at all. It was too loud for him. He could see the dimples crease his cheeks every once in a while in a giggle he wished he could hear.

Sapnap cackles loudly, blowing over the crowd easily with his boisterous personality. His drink swirls around the cup and his fist pounds the table on jokes easily. He sounds drunk, but it’s just his normal demeanour with everyone.

Dream always admired that in the younger man; never bowing down to anyone. Not really. Hardly has he ever seen Sapnap shrivel up under the weight of someone’s gaze.

His fingers drum against the wooden surface, filtering the noise around him into muffled sounds and his taps against the wood resonating to his ears. If he tries, Dream can partially understand why Sapnap feels comfortable here, in a group.

In some ways, Dream could learn to appreciate it too. Not at peak daytime, however. And most certainly not at night. 

Dream tilts his head a bit, watching George with slowed thoughts. The way his jaw moves when he laughs, the way the light refracts off his face.

He looks so relaxed, so young compared to the faces of demonized rulers he’s read about and the few he’s lived through. 

Not like the ones who burned down cities, not like the ones who terrorized their own people.

In a way, he refracts all that, soaking in the humanism that makes a good king a king.

George’s tongue swipes over his bottom lip, eyes no longer glazed with thought. He spares a glance or two towards Dream, expecting to see his green eyes despite the bone. It’s become unnatural how quickly he’s attached his demeanour to his face like it just sits in a corner of his mind. It watches over the control panel of what goes through his erratic thoughts.

God knows what goes on in that man's mind.

In ways, he reminds Dream of his father. Stubborn, with bags dripping his eyes down in exhaustion. He has his nose and his jaw. His eyes are softer though, more like the mother he’s never seen.

His actions speak of a new story, though, leaving behind literary trails his father was too cowardly to pursue, but radiating all the humanness of the rest of the world. Peasant to King, he acts just like one of them.

Dream lifts his mask up slightly to take a sip of the wine, coughs and places the drink down as he slips the bone back over his lips.

The amount of times he’s probably shoulder-checked the once prince in the marketplace hints to the way he acts like the average citizen. It points to the relished ways in how he doesn’t eat or drink like a King, but more humane. 

God, When did Dream’s perception of what made a King differ from what made a human?

He frowns, lifts the drink up to his lips again and takes a sip.

He knew so much yet so little. So out of control.

Dream shifts in his seat uncomfortably and listens back into George and Sapnap’s conversation, trying to erase the feeling of displacement in his mind and the feel of George’s eyes on him.

Dream draws an innocent breath between his teeth, sucking in his bottom lip under George’s soft side gaze. He feels naked, stumbling over his words through muddled breaths of air.

The oxygen felt too distinguishable in his lungs, feeling like thorns that were chilled compared to the warm drink warming up his palm.

_ “Leave it,” _ He thinks briefly.

He smiles and laughs at a joke Sapnap makes, feeling the tension leave his body slowly. Slow enough for it to be teasing.

He knows, somewhere, at some point in time, his own self is laughing at him.

He takes another sip of his drink.

\--

The moon is tipping over the horizon when they arrive back at the castle, Sapnap parting ways with a socially drained George and an exhausted Dream. They fumble through the gates, the breeze picking up remnants of people’s dreams and strands of the other's hair.

His inhibitions keep him at bay, the way his stomach swirls quietly with the fear of breaking anything now that Sapnap is gone.

He’s a verbose person, normally. Suppose sometimes that goes to shit.

2 beats.

If someone were to take a breath, the air would part for them. Lick at their skin, chill the veins that poke on their hands. 

George brings a thumb to his lips, teething at the bitten nail. 

“Sapnap’s very energetic,” Dream breaks the wall between the two men, “Sorry about him.”

George shakes his head. “It’s fine, I liked talking to him.”

A beat of tension.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Hm?” George hums between pressed teeth, his feet automatically driving him to the garden. He does that a lot recently, when fibres of life get tough and choke him to death he likes to escape here.

Dream follows.

“I mean, with Wravanoid.”

George’s face drops again as he settles his hand back down, pursuing his lips. His feet glide through the flowers, practised, as he climbs through the underbrush.

“It’s…” He stammers, unable to speak properly over the clog blocking the passage of language in his throat, “It’s difficult to explain. I- this whole situation,”

Dream follows him to the bench, opting to sit on the edge of the fountain instead.

He doesn’t move to remove his mask.

“I wish I could pursue other things, but it’s unfortunately at the forefront of my mind,” George replies, unsteady. “Conflicts were never my thing.”

Figures.

“Have you set a time?”

George frowns then shakes his head. “I’m awaiting Jschlatt’s answer, but in the meantime I have to worry about…”

“Your birthday.” Dream fills in the blank.

George heaves a dishevelled sigh. “Unfortunately.”

“Hey,” Dream cracks a weary smile he knows George can’t see. “It’s better than War.”

George thins his lips. “I suppose.”

A screech of the few birds awake at this hour disturb the heavy air, bringing about mutual chuckles that die down quickly. 

“I’m sorry,”

“For what?” George questions, an audible tilt of his head in his tone.

“This whole,” He waves with his hands, hoping his body language expresses his intentions better than his words. A writer who struggled with the English language.

Ironic.

“Ordeal,” He finishes. “It’s not what you wanted.”

George snakes a hand to his forehead and rests his head in the dip of his palm, cupping his eyes to protect himself from the outside world.

“I know.”

“It's not what you deserve.”

George hesitates. “I know.”

An owl hoots, a cricket chirps, and the rushing water gushes down with the motion of gravity. 

George stands up after a minute, sighing and removing his hands. “We should both get some rest. Things to discuss tomorrow and, well, yeah.”

Dream nods. “Yeah,” He echoes. “Better for the both of us.”

“Mm,” George hums, walking towards the castle. 

Dream stands there for a moment, watching the leaves rustle idly. It feels too intimate, doing this, for someone who hardly knows him. Did the previous king do this? Have an advisor like Dream was to George? Or was he alone?

Was George turning out like his father? Would he ever?

“Hey,” Dream stands up, raising his voice above the gentle whisper it was, hoping George would hear.

George swivels on his feet, turning back towards Dream with a patient look.

Dream gulps past an indistinguishable feeling, one that's a million feelings huddled under a trench coat and pretending feebly to be one. 

“I’m proud of you. Your mother would be, too.”

George swallows, fingers twitching and his eyelashes fluttering as the moon dips around him and to his sides.

God, he’s stupidly fucking pretty. It’s an idle thought that races Dream’s mind, and he knows it’s the wrong situation to think it. It’s the way the moonlight accents his face, the way how you could tell exactly what he was feeling. It’s like a deeply rooted lust for a man’s smile.

_ Another  _ man's smile. 

“You’re… You’re doing great. Really, I’m proud of you.”

George opens his mouth then closes it.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

Dream nods slowly.

Then George turns on his heel towards the castle again, leaving Dream to his thoughts for the second time that week. A trend becoming a common occurrence.

\--

Don’t fight the emotional turmoil, Dream reasons with himself. Though, it’s beyond useless when your instinct is to fight. 

His back collapses against the mattress, air kicked out of his lungs like a guttural punch. His face is heaving for air, lungs expanding and reaching for the little bits he allowed himself. His hair tie is dragged out of it, flung across the room.

The covers feel stuffy, he kicks them off. His mask lays discarded on the floor.

It’s too early for this, it’s way too early for this. The moon still shines high in the sky, choking Dream to death with thoughts he’d pushed away when the sun was still up. 

This was a nightmare wrapped in pretty pink shit, Dream decides, flinging an arm over his eyes as if that’d shelter him from anything. From unwanted, intrusive thoughts that don’t dictate him in the slightest.

...

He can get away with thinking anything now, nobody would hear.

Nobody would judge, nobody but himself.

Dream doesn’t say anything, though. His thoughts are pictures, videos. Films that stretch for too long.

When dreams inhibit the conscious mind is when dreams become a problem. It’s when you need to address them, need to banish them from your conciousness.

_ Dream drags a hand under George’s jaw, letting his thumb trace a line back and forth. His eyes are lidded, blue-brown eyes that will drown him. _

_ He lets his other hand rest between the crook where his neck meets his shoulder, and his breath is dangerously close to his face. It’s like fire, swirling around him and tasting the risk of letting lips connect. _

_ He might just melt in his arms, he already feels like a forest fire.  _

“Get out of my head,” Dream pleads softly, borderline  _ whines _ , with a rising tension building up in the upper part of his face. A blush creeps onto his ears, tearing his skin off with licking flames and boiling heat, spreading down his neck to the tips of his fingers rapidly. Like an erratic forest fire. He’s not sure if he could bring his voice to a normal tone if he tried.

_ “Don’t just stand there,” George breathes, his voice is low, punctuated by his accent and his hair is messed up and tossed around.  _

_ “God, fuck, George,” _

_ "Say that again." _

_ "What?" Dream asks, less a question but a demand to hear him say that again, the way his tone is knocked off. "God, fuck George." _

_ George shudders. _

_ He drags a finger across his chin. His eyes are hooded, lidded with the brinks of exhaustion and intense staredown. Dream swallows past the lump in his throat. "Has anyone told you how stupidly fucking pretty you are?" He mumbles. George gasps for air, piercing the quiet tension.  _

_ “You like that, huh?” his voice stirs quietly, mixing together hints of vanilla sweet tone and deep chocolate pitch.  _

Dream covers his face beneath his hands. This is entirely inappropriate.

His thoughts are his thoughts if he never reveals them.

Well, then nobody will ever know them, won't they?

He flings a hand over his eyes. He's just lonely. 

_ George shudders through broken breaths, his head tilted and leaning towards the shell of his ear. He's whining, god, he's intoxicated off of every sound that litters out of his pretty little mouth. _

_ “This isn’t right,” Dream murmurs, the humour that might’ve lingered is dissipated.  _

_ “Just- Shut up,” George is fumbling for the collar of his tunic, grabbing him from the side of his face before he could tease him more, drag a hand under his shirt and flick the chilly pale skin. Whisper sweet nothings into his ears as he got drunk off of adrenaline. _

_ Their eyes lock. _

There’s a knock on the door, and Dream jolts upwards from his lying position, uncupping his face which lies in his hands. He’s sure his face is burning with the raging power of a million flames, and for once he’s thankful for the cloak that the moonlight provides. 

Waterfall of daydreams that still linger drown his sins around him, as he holds up a candle towards the door. 

George opens the door with a lantern similarly in hand. Dream’s pretty sure his breathing’s stopped, throat tightly knotted around a ball of worry. Lack of oxygen made his head dizzy. Or were those daydreams? Fuck, this can’t keep happening. He can’t keep letting these thoughts that don’t reflect him in.

_ “You can’t just say that to me.”  _

_ “Then make me,”  _

_ Gutted, Dream leans in. His lips fan the others softly, like a butterflies repose, teasing the waters of what he knows will happen. The soft skin that brushes between them, and the string of air that connects their private souls. _

_ He breathes quietly, frighteningly hot breath tickling and digging into his skin, sending shivers climbing up Dream’s spine and into his closed throat. _

They’re not his-- they are  _ not  _ his. He does  _ not  _ claim responsibility for them. 

“Sorry to wake you at this hour,” George starts, his voice raw with tension. You can see the tired, yet worried glint in his eyes, which reflect the moon that shines from the window in front of him. “But-- uh,”

George pauses, stumbling over his words. “Karl he- he just got back.”

The daydream stops. 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! i just wanted to say wow, crap i am overwhelmed with the support :D i’m sorry about the cringy chapter it’s not my best but i hope you enjoy regardless HHSJDNDN  
> tysm for 6k hits wow :0, now if only my youtube got this much popularity HSJDNKSBDLANWKFKFKNS anyways thank you all for reading and i’ll see you next time peace :D


	6. [Clipped]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jschlatt’s not as cooperative a ruler as everyone believes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! some warnings for this chapter:  
> minor homophobia (it's like the 16th century idk what you're expecting lMOA)  
> jschlatt (/j)  
> uhh arson. im not joking
> 
> anyways i refuse to speak in medieval lingo so here's sapnap speaking like a gen z'er for 900 words

\--

George’s grip on the letter is unsteady, and the seal is broken, but the letter seems to not have shifted an inch in the envelope.

Dream gulps down his fears and holds the candle by the bottom, slipping out of his bed and treading carefully towards George.

George pulls at the collar of his tunic, handing the letter to Dream. “I-I haven’t read it yet.” He admits, “I opened the seal though,”

Dream mumbles a ‘clearly,’ and fingers at the dried wax, seeing the way nails dug into it to rip it open. Almost with force. 

He peels the letter gently out of the envelope, letting the paper discard itself on the floor as he opens it with caution.

“To his highness King George,” he murmurs, finger tracing a light line over dried ink. “To whom it may concern, I am busy as of now,”

“Prick,” murmurs George between teeth as Dream pauses,

“For the next following days my advisor team is scheduled to meet at noon of Thursday, arrive before then and we can speak.”

Dream’s eyes scan down the paper. At the bottom is a poorly signed initials of ‘Jschlatt’, and it looks like his actual handwriting is different from his paper writing. Almost as if someone else wrote it for him.

Dream hummed and said as much to George.

“It could be his advisor, drafting up his papers for him.”

“True,” Dream concedes, “but it’s best to be wary.”

George nods quietly stares at the paper then the lantern in his hands. The light illuminates a speck of soft dust on his face. “I apologise for waking you up this late.”

“Don’t, it’s fine,” Dream replies.

George’s eyelashes flutter, looking back to Dream and nodding. “Well we have a long day tomorrow. Good night, Dream.”

“Good night, George.”

\--

A rooster crow, a tired hand, and two eyes throbbing with the need to stay shut.

Dream despises Mondays.

Mondays were the dreary drag of the week, the flick away from the eyes. Nobody acknowledged it until it caused disruption into their schedules. Mondays came and went, like every other day. The abrupt wake-up call from a weekend worth of partying, the unfortunate ease back into working until your bones ache where they met and your wrists were sore. 

And though Dream could customize his own schedule to an extent as he pleased, he had no want to ignore the searing need to blame his unbalanced work habits on a force of nature beyond his control.

His head lay still on the pillow, contemplative eyes roaming the ceiling.

A scoff escaped his lips, a habitual drag of his hand towards the wood of his bedside, to claw at something other than fabric and ground him away from his daydreams. 

Mondays would be something to look forward to if every single day wasn’t the exact same as the last.

A routine Dream once felt looping around his ankles in heavy chains. Despite being a part of George’s life, there was a silence now that wasn’t there before. It was held delicately in the palms between them, a shared disconnect from reality as Dream continued to let his imagination torture him.

He digs his fingernails around his pillow again, unmushing his face from it and dragging himself out of bed with all the early morning force he could muster up.

Dream dusts the floor with his footsteps, not bothering to change out of his sleeping attire and making his way over to George’s room, as he does regularly.

In concept, it seems weird.

He knocks on the door, George mumbles “come in,” and he slides it open.

“Good morning.” Dream whispers, George still face-planted into the covers, like he just got tackled into them. 

George murmurs incoherently and turns towards the door, rubbing at his eyes and forcing himself up to a sitting position. “Bad arranged a meeting in an hour between the two of you,” he reminds him.

“Three,” George corrects lazily with all the force of a kid waking up early. 

“Three?” Dream questions.

“Well yes you are a part of my cabinet aren’t you?”

“I am?”

George snickers. “You are, please go tell Adrienne to bring breakfast up here, I might fall down the stairs if I attempt to walk.”

Dream snorts and exits the room, cornering Adrienne quickly and relaying the order. He reenters the room swiftly. 

George notes on as much. “That was quick.”

“She was already on her way over to ask the same thing,”

George stifles a snort and unceremoniously fumbles out of bed. He acts in no way like a king, perhaps for better or for worse. “I suppose I’m a bit predictable.”

Dream smiles through his teeth. “Quite.” 

George rifles through his stuff for a moment by his bed, and Dream peers up to the chair by the desk on the other side of the room. 

There sits George. He looks different though; the look in his gaze is even less cordial than now, which seems to be impossible to the naked eye. Maybe even the dressed eye. 

“Good morning,” he smiles with hooded eyes and purpled lips. His neck is a rainbow of bruise colours, and this rendition of George tempts Dream by lightly hovering a finger over them. He grins at Dreams frozen expression. 

“Uh-“ Dream chokes on his spit, desperately avoiding eye contact. Real George looks up.

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” he lies swiftly. 

The different George— the fake one— drops his head down a bit and lowers his tone. “Miss me?”

 _I don’t even know you,_ Dream murmurs to himself.

Fake George responds. “Yes you do.”

_You’re a part of my thoughts, how else would you hear me?_

“I never said I was real.”

Dream sighs heavily, breath coming out quickly like a waterfall draping out of a hole after years of blockage, real George fumbling with the covers and staring at him weirdly.

“You look dazed.”

“Do I?” Dream mumbles through gritted teeth and a flushed face. Of all the times he forgot his mask.

George drops the subject quickly, leaving the man to his antics. He shakes his head and murmurs things to himself, rollng his eyes fondly. 

Adrienne walks into the room soon after, sets the dish on the table by the side of the room and bows out respectfully, hardly leaving Dream enough time to snap out of his trance.

George drops his head back onto the headboard, grabbing at a piece of bread as Dream brings the tray over.

Dream sits down comfortably, bed becoming increasingly used to his weight.

He grimaced at the notion. _Not like that._

“Maybe you want it like that?” echoes fake George. His tone is too friendly, too relaxed, almost impish in its tone compared to the warm yet royal one of present George— Real George.

_Shut up._

George hands him a piece of bread delicately, not saying anything but noting the troubled look in Dreams eyes.

“You alright?”

“Yeah I’m. I’m fine.”

George nods, unconvinced and rips into the bread forcefully. His teeth sink into the dough and he struggles to rip it with just his teeth. Dream snaps back in and laughs lightly, not his normal wheeze but a polite chuckle.

“Do you need me to rip it for you?” Dream jokes. George grumbles a tinge of pink flushing his cheeks in embarrassment. 

_Don’t think about it._

“I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Dream drawls. “For someone with awfully sharp canines you suck at this.”

George blinks. “Why are you looking at my teeth?”

Dreams breathing stutters. “A- pass of eye motion.”

George blinks slowly, returning to his bread quietly as his ears flush a little bit more in colour. He notes that there’s a bit of a crescent-shaped hole by the top, and they’re ever so slightly pointy. 

Dream groans to himself.

“Good job, nimwit.” 

_I never said you could stop talking._

“I’m your king.” fake George draws. “You don’t have a choice in the matter.”

_Didn’t ask._

“Did you? I _could_ just,” He leans in. He’s grappling at the bed, on his arms and knees as he brings a hand up to his jaw, once at his side as he turns Dream's head to face him.

He can _feel_ the presence of soft skin on his jaw. It’s very much real. George swipes a hand on his cheek and tucks his hand under his chin. 

His head moves too close for comfort, tilting with all the lingering motion of a man kissed raw. With his face so close to his, he’s acutely aware of the way his lips part for breath.

George’s lips dust his, for a brief second, warm air lingering in the space between them. They’re so close that if Dream made a single move slightly forwards he’d kiss him. God knows if he'd be able to restrain himself if that happens. 

Dream makes a strangled noise, causing the actual George to look up to Dream with confusion.

“Food went down weirdly,” he lies for the millionth time that day. 

“You’re pathetic.”

_Shut up._

George goes quiet. Both of them.

—

He needs to talk to Sapnap, Dream decides first before anything else. The cabinet meeting goes by quickly, with lingers of the imitation of George lingering in the corner of his mind. George, real George, stays by the garden for the day, and Dream excuses himself.

His mind is too twirled up around issues he shouldn’t even _have_ to think properly, feet running on instinct as he rushes towards the stadium.

Sapnap, ever as predictable, is on the bleachers of the pit. He wipes the sweat of his brow with a towel, a boy cradled into his side and laughing along with him. Sapnap slaps the towel against the boy playfully and they share a laugh.

He’s hesitant to break it up and almost moves to leave. However, Sapnap catches him in his peripheral and offers him a friendly smile. “My guy! What’s up?”

“We need to talk.”

Sapnap’s face drops rather quickly, and he turns to the boy pressed against his side. He murmurs an apology and unloops his arm out of his hold. 

Dream adjusts the bone mask on his face hesitantly, takes a step backwards and waits for Sapnap to follow.

“Can we go somewhere private?”

“Yeah, sure dude of course.” Sapnap leads the way, rounding a corner into a nearby bar just a few paces away from the pit's entrance. 

The dust accumulating in the not as known establisment is suffocating, only a meagre few sat anywhere. Drinks clatter and early afternoon chatter fill the otherwise choking air. Sapnap gestures him to a table.

“What’s up?”

Dream gulps down his worries and grips at the pliant wood. 

“Daydreams,” He starts off simply. “I’ve been, uh, having daydreams.” He’s not afraid to tell Sapnap anything.

But he still needs a moment to get over himself.

“Well that’s not so bad-” Sapnap starts.

“-Of another man,” Dream puts simply.

Sapnap blinks, confused. “Ok and?”

Dream blinks. “Of another _man,”_ Dream reiterates.

Sapnap blinks then realisation is in his eyes. “Oh.” He pauses for an achingly long time. “What kind of Daydreams?”

Dream needs a moment to gather his thoughts.

“Uh, the uh. The not-” He’s fumbling with his words in a way unknown to him, “In a well- pleasurable manner,”

Sapnap chokes back a laugh. “Hey! This isn’t funny.”

“Sorry, Sorry,” Sapnap gulps down his laughter. “I don’t understand the stress.”

“You don’t get it-- you weren’t here for the old king.” Dream’s bouncing his leg now, glancing around with tints of nervousness in his expression as he slips off his mask. He feels like he’s suffocating. He might be.

“No, you’re right.” Sapnap agrees. “I come from a place where it doesn’t matter if you like to smack ass or get your ass smacked.”

“Sapnap!” Dream scolds, and Sapnap bursts out into laughter, banging his fist on the table.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he chuckles, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “The point is that times are changing. Go get George for all I care.” He remarks, calling towards the bartender for two drinks and going over to grab them as Dream contemplates his words, 

Dream huffs, looking out towards the window for a moment. “I never said anything about George.” He furrows his eyebrows, swiping a thumb across the bone mask.

Sapnap rolls his eyes and scoffs, sliding a drink over to Dream who quietly thanks him. His hand grazes the wood table, tracing an outline in the carved wood. “Oh please who else would it be? Bad?”

Dream, mid-sip of his alcoholic beverage, spits his beer out and nearly chokes on it. “PFPTP-” he rasps, swiping a hand down his own clothing to remove the stains of the drink. Sapnap bangs his fist against the table, laughing with his whole chest. Dream swears at him under his breath. 

They both take a moment to laugh, Dream’s signature wheeze knocking the air out of his lungs for the millionth time that one day. 

He sighs and exhales to calm himself down, waiting for the latter to get back on the same track he steered back onto. “It’s not romantic, though.” Dream remakes seriously. “They feel like. Real?”

“Real?” Sapnap ponders. 

“Yeah like,” He looks around the bar, almost nervously as he fumbles for the right sentence. “Uh,” He swipes a thumb over the wood part of his cup. “Like if I were to touch like the daydream version of him he’d be solid,”

“Have you?”

“What?” Dream asks with a cock of his head.

“Touched him?” 

Dream clicks his tongue and holds down a raging blush with his own two hands. “Not in the way you’re implying.”

“So you have.” Sapnap presses. He’s not smiling so much, but there’s a burning curiosity in his eyes. He’s leaning forwards so much Dream wonders if he might lean over this table and just kiss him or something.

He holds back a snort at the thought.

“Yes, I have.”

Sapnap, aware of his leaning posture, collapses back into the seat into a relaxed position. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Dream blinks. “Well I went to you for a reason, dipshit.”

Sapnap rolls his eyes. “Calm your tits, I’m sure it’ll dissipate soon enough nimrod— Niki!” He waves towards the person that just entered the bar with a friendly smile and a grin.

Dream looks back out the window with forlorn. “Yeah. I hope so.”

—

George’s still standing in the garden when Dream returns. The king’s just sort of, sitting on the edge of the water fountain. His back posture is relaxed and his hands lay in his lap with a single red poppy twirling between his gloved fingers. His eyes reek of internal conflict.

“My king,” Dream reminds himself mostly, cordially, that he was his guard.

George perks up quickly and stands up, tossing aside the poppy. “Hello Dream, doing good?”

This small talk already was terribly awkward. “Yes. I just visited Sapnap. We have a few things to plan though, like the upcoming harvest ball and your meeting with King Jschlatt.”

George groans. Dream sympathises. 

“I know it sucks, but unfortunately we have to do this now rather than later.”

“I know,” George waves off with a breathy sigh as he starts back towards the castle. Dream follows right beside him. 

George starts the conversation for him. “When’s the ball?”

“Next Wednesday, sir.”

George nods, turning back in front of him. “Right, and the meeting?”

“Three Days.”

George purses his lips tensely and nods. “Right.” 

They continue the conversation lightly, quickly divulging into topics Dream had tuned out of eventually. Making their way across the castle, they eventually end up at the decorative bench near George’s room.

They sit down quietly on opposite ends of the hall. 

He stands behind him at first, the see-through stain that lingers as Dream’s imagination. He takes a step towards his counterpart in this reality, draping a hand over his shoulders and leaning into his side smugly. The look on his face is contorted like he’s trying to be self-satisfied but out of breath. His mouth lulls open falsely, bruised purple lips delicately marking at the skin. 

“Well?” The fake George asks Dream tauntingly, “Aren’t you going to tell him?”

Dream swallows a gulp, feeling it pull at his throat as it dropped back into the pit of his stomach. He’s trying-- so terribly trying to focus on George’s eyes but fake George is leaning against him and he looks so… _different._ The look in his eyes is less friendly, more longing. Something a king doesn’t often show. His hair is dishevelled, his face is so relaxed yet not at the same time.

Makes Dream wonder if he repressed it.

The pale flesh on George’s counterpart is red and raw-bitten at and sucked till it coloured of the whole fucking rainbow and was left destroyed. Marked, claimed, even. 

Dream swipes a tongue over his bottom lip nervously and turns back to real George, who’s blabbering on about god knows what.

“You,” fake George breathes tauntingly. Scrutinisingly. “This was you.”

Dream has to keep himself from making a strangled noise as he walks with the king, his fingernails picking at the leather of his pants.

Real George says something about hyacinths. Fake George lets go of real George, moving towards the wall to lean against. His back hits the cobblestone as if he was here like he was solid. 

Somehow, the notion doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Clay,” fake George breathes, sing-songy. It almost sounds whiney. “You know you want it.”

Dream’s breath really climbs up his throat now, trapped. He finds words knocked out of him like being kicked in the balls repeatedly, and he stands up to clear himself.

“I’m sorry, my king, I might need a minute.”

Real George furrows his brows slightly at him then nods politely. “Alright, I’ll probably still be here when you get back.”

He hardly gets a chance to finish before Dream not so subtly drags himself through the hallways from where he was just walking, bumping into a few maids as he stumbles into his room.

He rolls his tunic sleeves up and moves towards the tub of water by the foot of his bed. Kneeling down, he slips his hair tie out of his dishevelled locks and cups some cold water in his hands.

The water splashes his face with newfound grounding, but it’s not nearly enough to remove the maladaptive daydreams (is that what they’re called? he briefly asks himself.) taunting him.

He refuses to look behind him.

“Do you regret it?”

Dream doesn’t say anything.

“Becoming a knight?”

Dream’s voice is still knocked out, lying on the floor in a helpless crumble.

He gazes to the side with a tint of regret.

“I don’t know.”

George goes silent behind him, clicks his tongue, and the other noise stops.

When Dream turns around behind him, his sick daydreams are gone.

He hopes it would stay that way. 

\--

“George,” his own brain yells at him.

George cradles his head in his hands. “Go away.”

How did he end up in his room again? Dream dashed off a while ago, god knows for what. He entered his room eventually. Sat down, contemplating everything.

There’s only the sound of wood creaking for a moment, then the vibrations of another human beings presence litter the room again.

“No.”

George coughs back an unintelligible noise and looks down at his feet instead of behind him.

“Dream, now isn’t the time.”

Dream huffs audibly, softly dissipating into the thick air around him. “Then when is it? Having a figment of me as your imagination-”

“Go back to the corner of my head from where you came from,” George whirls around him, the desk chair sliding against the cobblestone. Dream leans on his bed’s railing, the bandages wrapped around his middle and the poor cloth around his wrist doing hardly nothing to sheath the upper half of his body. 

At least, for human decencies sake, he wore pants that hugged his thighs.

He had serious issues.

“-for starters,” George finishes breathily. 

Dream only blinks slowly, eyelashes fluttering against green pupils. All he does is stare at him for a brief moment, rubbing the bruises on his neck faintly before turning away. There’s not a blush, not a trace of extra blood in his face.

Was he actually this composed? Or was this his brain playing some sick trick on him?

“That’s not what you really want, though,” he licks his top lip, “is it?”

George knows it isn’t. But this is a figment of his imagination. A part of him that unfortunately took the form of his guard and friend. Were they friends?

George frowns, looks around. There’s a shift in the air, unsure when it finished changing.

The breeze feels unsteady, uneasy. Like someone is watching.

George looks away from Dream, pinpointing the invisible sense of discomfort.

“Who is it?”

George blinks and whispers, “I dont know.” 

\--

Their conversation resumes as normal when Dream makes his appearance again and continues as strained as it was for the rest of the day. From picking out different ball gowns (“I’m not wearing _that_ to a ball. I’m wearing my armour, not up for debate.”) to the war meeting. (“You’ll be fine, George.” “Will I, Dream?”)

Daydreams stay strained between the two, and Dream subtly ignores the way his mind plays tricks on him. He blames moonlight, of all things. Magic, maybe.

Not really.

Wednesday comes easily, and the roosters haven’t yet crowed when Dream is forced to drag George out of bed. Nearly literally.

“George.” Dream tries, holding the lantern up to his face. George fumbles the way he always does in the morning, dragging himself out of bed with less than royal composure. 

“G’morning t’you too, Dream,” he grumbles, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye and rubbing. His accent is thicker in the morning, voice dropped an octave or two.

Dream swallows his pride and adjusts his mask. “It’s nearly a full day’s ride, we’ll need to get on the road soon if we wish to go at a non-rushed pace.” He pauses, then adds in, “My king.”

George grumbles and nods. “I’ll be out in a minute, you know where the stables are?”

Dream bites his lip. “No.”

George licks his top lip. “Alright, just wait ou’side fer a sec’nd…” His accent blurs into slurred words and skipped vowels, and Dream wonders how the hell he was the one who inherited the throne as he steps outside.

\--

George steps outside not a moment later, clearing his throat of its drowsiness and wearing some plain formal attire. A white shirt with flowy sleeves, some leather pants. His collar is unbuttoned, allowing him to breathe before he had to wear his cape. Just his collarbones peek out from the shirt.

Dream mentally slaps himself. Might've done it physically too, if George wasn't right there. 

He raises an eyebrow on the exterior, then remembers his face is still hidden behind the bone. “Come,” George gestures to follow him. Dream follows by his side, only half a pace behind him.

The turn out of the castle easily, George’s bag slung over his shoulder like that of a messenger boy’s. He loops around the other side of the castle, to the right whereas the left is the garden. They turn around the hilled and walled off space around the building, finding themselves into a small field that sits in front of well-decorated stables.

Dream walks up to the horses with curiosity, observing them. It’s been a while since he's ridden a horse, god hopes George is better. 

The air is crisp, more like autumn despite the chill of yesterday still lingering overhead. George shoulder checks Dream and moves towards another horse. George’s horse was a deep black colour, with splatters of white spots that look like freckles or stars. 

Dream, however, goes up to a pale white horse by the end, who’s a bit taller and lanker. She-he? They look good for speed. Dream gently reaches out a hand towards them, letting the horse sniff at his hand briefly.

“That’s Spirit,” George calls. “Awfully nice. Though they will kick you if you’re an asshole.”

Dream laughs, gently running a thumb across their mane. “And yours?” Dream calls.

“Her name’s Star-- stop laughing at me I didn’t name her.”

“St- Star?” Dream wheezes out.

George rolls his eyes and mumbles curses under his breath, quietly returning to placing her harness back on. Spirit, luckily, already has their harness on.

Thank god, Dream’s never harnessed a horse before.

George finishes swiftly and gently opens the pen door, clicking his tongue with the reins to get Star moving. Dream does similar actions with Spirit, albeit uncomfortable with lack of experience handling horses.

“I hope you know how to ride a horse.”

“Well,” Dream starts, “It’s been a while, but I’m sure it’ll catch up to me.”

George snorts fondly and leads the horses out to the field, climbing onto Star’s back with ease. He swings one leg over first, then lets the rest of his body follow, grasping the reins in one hand as he adjusted his position.

Dream follows his actions, not trusting himself with his drained experience of riding, following the same motions. Spirit clicks at him and he makes a point to click his tongue back at them. It’s a mutual agreement.

Wantonly, he watches as another knight does the same thing, picking a more dull horse-- just a simple ashy brown in colour. The horse looks relatively healthy, neither lanky nor chubby.

“This is Dave, he’ll accompany us to Wravanoid.” 

Dream nods politely at the stranger, then moves his horse side by side to George’s, gripping the reins with uncertainty in both of his hands.

George looks to the side at him and sighs. “Don’t grip it so hard, you’ll strangle them.” 

Dream, acutely aware now of his death grip on the reins, drops a good portion, letting them hang down. Spirit huffs, a sign of _much better, idiot._ Dream rolls his eyes at the horse, waiting for Dave to catch up.

He eventually does, staying in the rear with supplies and the map as George leads. Dream, off to his side and not too far behind.

“There’s a trail around back,” George explains, watching Dream’s eyes carefully as they exit the hill and move towards a dirt path carved around the sides of the castle and digging into a gate by the dirt wall. 

“Just don’t lose me, or fall off your horse,” George teases, glancing back at Dream briefly.

Dream scoffs. “No promises, my king.”

George grins and turns back to where Dave is. “Should we start with a light canter?” He looks thrilled to finally be out of the castle again. Dream doesn’t blame him.

Dave shrugs. “It’s up to you, your majesty.”

With that, George turns to Dream. “Dream?”

Truth be told he’s never done much more _than_ a light canter. “Why not?”

George grins, dimples in his cheeks creasing towards his eyes. “Alright--” He clicks his tongue to gently (to not injure the horse) tell Star to speed up, digging the heel of his foot by her back with grace;, continuing till they picked up speed.

They exit the gate quickly, and eventually, they end up in a grass field just behind the castle, leading into a forest where the dirt path divulges. 

Dream, trying not to fucking fall off his horse, stands up in his seat warily as he briefly remembers having to do during lessons. George runs on ahead, definitely _not_ following at a light canter.

“Wooo!” A distant voice calls in front of him, and Dream scoffs. The sun has hardly risen and this is what gets George up and out of bed?

He rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue to catch up, aware this was going to be a long ride.

\--

Eventually, the sun starts to dip below the horizon. They stray on for a bit, Dave making no sound of protest in the back as Dream and George bicker animatedly, back up to a walk. 

He’s distinctly aware of his imagination wrapping his arms around the back of his chest. It feels too real, the way his arms slide against his torso and snuggle into his neck, nuzzling into the warmth and murmuring strings of incoherent replies to the conversation only Dream can hear.

It feels too real, and he briefly hopes Dave can’t actually see it.

Dream doesn’t turn around behind him once, the whole trip, and they set up camp for the night eventually.

The horses leads are tied to a tree, given some food and tended to by Dave as Dream fumbles to set up a tent. The daydreams are gone.

“Never made a tent?” George teases.

“Have you ever made one?” Dream retorts back playfully. George scoffs.

“...No-” 

“That’s what I thought,” He replies, finishing up the last tent without any hint of ease, sitting down on the log they’ve placed in the small clearing by a spring. They’re well into the woods now, a small log fire attracting smoke and light. George turns the pig they brought earlier over it, watching the flames crackle and burst for a second.

They sit by the fire for a moment, Dream shoving off the last of his heavy armour and cracking his back as he stretches, line of his T-shirt riding up. George looks away and clears his throat.

Dream quietly notes on why it took Karl so long to get back, now truly realising the distance between the two kingdoms. “Neighbouring” kingdoms his ass.

“Karl must hold a world record for how quick he got to and from.”

George snorts at the notion. “He took a whole day, we’re only taking half of one longer.”

Dream rolls his eyes and doesn't protest, glancing at the pig George has focused his attention back to. 

The stars roll up into the sky quickly, after dinner’s served and everyone feels tired.

“I’m going to head to bed, good night your highness,” Dave remarks first, sliding into his tent.

George yawns. “Actually that sounds like a good idea, I’ll head to bed too. Are you taking the night watch?”

As much as Dream doesn’t want to be left with his own thoughts, he hardly has much of a choice.

“Of course. Now go to bed, idiot.” He jokes playfully. George scoffs and lightly slaps his shoulder with some parchment paper he had in his hand as he retreats back to his tent.

“G’night Dream,” George calls.

Dream fans the flame, metaphorically and physically as he looks back to George. “Good night.”

\--

Morning comes dreadfully.

Dream’s head breaches the water’s tension easily. His hair sticks to his forehead, brushing a finger through it and moving it out of his face. Tense eyes linger around the spring, dropping his shoulders and propping his elbows up behind him.

The rocks that cover the sides of the springs are drenched, not even from Dream himself but from the cascading waterfall a bit away from him, causing occasional disturbances in the peaceful tension.

The birds sing smoothly in the jungle overhead, leaves rustling and breaking the sunlight feathery fall into the underbrush. 

Dream sighs against the chilled wind, dipping his body under the warmth of the water for a moment before lifting himself back up to lean on the rocks.

A splashing sound echoes from the side of him, and he distantly hopes it’s a fish or any harmless sea life.

It’s not. 

His mind's rendition of George breaks the surface, with hair sticking lightly to his face that he brushes to one side and a lopsided grin. “Waters are nice for Winter.”

Dream grumbles. _Get out of my head._

“Now why would I do that?” George smirks, playfully. Not in the kind of bold manner Sapnap had but more like a gentle teasing one. One that reeks of George more and more by the passing seconds.

_Because I said so._

“There’s no need to think,” George sighs, leaning back against the rocks as well, mere inches from brushing Dream’s tense shoulder with his lax one. “There’s nobody around.”

Dream double checks with his eyes, clicking his tongue as he gazes around his surroundings and takes not of every living creature. He turns back to George, defeated. Tired. 

Most of all, wanting. 

He drags the back of his fist over his bottom lip and sighs defeatedly. “Thankfully.” He replies, finally. 

George hums and drags himself closer towards Dream, letting his hands dip back into the water as he shoulder checks Dream with his other. “No need to be so tense.”

He blinks. “Sure.” 

George, this time, is the one sighing, picking at some seagrass growing on the moss of the shallow spring floor. His nails dig into the plant and pick at them out of habit, diving long, nimble fingers around its roots and playing with nature.

Dream briefly thinks that it’s his habits that both connect yet separate his rendition of George from the real one. 

“Stop staring at me.” George presses lightheartedly.

Dream blinks out of his trance, noting his mistake. “What?”

“You’re looking at me like you want to devour me.” George remarks fondly, nails dug into the moss.

“Is that a good or bad thing?” Dream inquires when George turns to meet his eyes.

Their gaze’s lock for a brief moment. “That's up to you.”

He’s aware the distance is close, too close. Leaving bits of thin stripes of air and a string of unspoken words between them. George hums fruitfully, leaning to close the distance that connects them, quirking his head slightly with gentle lips parted. Dream hesitates with his breath, then lets the distance connect. 

Dream presses their lips together firmly, desperate hands moving up towards George’s jawline and holding his face in his hands. George lets his hands rest in his lap, letting go of vision for a second to enjoy the feeling of warmth and certified safety spoken through delicate lips and firm kisses. In the back of Dream’s brain, a twinge of defiance betrays him, but he doesn't acknowledge it. Not yet.

He thinks it's sloppy, especially since it’s not his first time, parting his mouth for breath every few seconds then immediately returning to his lips. The warmth dances over his skin, sending blood rushing to his cheeks and furrowing his brows with all the force he kissed him with.

George eagerly kisses back, and unlike Dream who seems like he’s starving with want, with need, he’s a soft kisser. Clashing against the dynamic, his lips feel like butterfly’s wings. Terribly soft, chaste and gentle and so fucking perfect.

"Fuck," George mumbles.

Dream tests the waters by nipping at his lips as he leans back onto the rocks, pulling George onto his lap. The older man straddles his sides, thighs quivering delicately against him and his hands fumbling for the right place to stay. Dream rests a steady palm on his inner thigh, dusting a thumb near where it dips into his pelvis region. 

George gasps breathily, dissolving into a high pitched moan, the weight of the situation pressed up against his face as he slowly learns the pace at which Dream is speaking. He draws back for a second, from where his body is pressed up tightly against Dream’s own. His breath is desperate for more but in need of air. Raspy, he still stays close enough to let his lips dust over his like a butterfly's repose.

“We can’t be doing this here,” George whispers faintly. Dream frowns, furrows his eyebrows and pecks George’s lips once more.

“Just a few more minutes,”

“I-” George starts to reply, lips connecting with his again as he whimpers delightfully. Dream kisses him harder, playing a game of back and forth as they find their pace again swiftly, leaving George breathless above him. His thighs shake under the water, his hand still gripping and massaging them to George’s own delight. The noises he makes are muffled, yet sweet and delicious, hands pressed up against his chest. Dream thinks he might never want to let go. It’s better than any girl he’s ever kissed.

Footsteps cascade slowly in the jungle’s bush distantly, and George rushes to slide off of Dream, pecking his lips delicately, almost fervently wanting more but knowing it’s not safe as he slides to the side.

The guard accompanying them on their short trip towards the kingdom peers through the trees. “So sorry sir Dream, the king requests your company.”

Dream frowns, turns his head slowly to where George was before but sees nothing but the ripples of a man who rushed off.

“Of course, tell him I’ll be out in a second.”

The Guard nods and leaves quickly, slipping back through the jungle biome. Dream lets his head fall back onto the stone, swiping a thumb over his lips with his thumb.

There’s a chance this felt a little too real.

He curses whatever God’s up there for giving him feelings for another man and stands up out of the water, not wanting to think about delicately sugar-sweet lips or quivering thighs for much longer. 

\--

They arrive in the Kingdom just before high noon, the castle walls imposing upon them even ages before they were towards the kingdom.

“Jesus,” Dream murmurs, watching the way the walls climb up and impose conflict already. Behind his mind's eye, he’s already debating the ways they’d need to scale it, worst comes to worst.

Knights instinct.

George murmurs to himself something indistinguishable, fading away as they trot through the tall yellow grass that reflects the afternoon soon with a golden tint. The gates are large, riding up to them suddenly even Dream feels minuscule.

George talks with the guards briefly, while Dream examines the purple brick wall, wondering what kind of texture it would feel under his skin, and what it actually was. 

They’re let in, as they dismount their horses by the entrance and step inside the city walls.

As the doors close on them, Dream is left to marvel at the sight. The castle is directly in the middle of a bolstering city, with bridges and towns and diverse wildlife all around. Creatures of all sort roam around, and Dream’s eye briefly catches on a half piglin. 

Spirits lead in hand, they traverse the square with hesitance and their horses behind them.

The town is made primarily of wood, and houses linger around the grass. It’s massive, it’s bright, it’s alive.

It looks like there's a festival going on today.

George stops to marvel too, clearing his throat out of his daze and politely letting a guard who came up to them for assistance to show them the way to the castle.

As they pass, people stop and stare briefly, whispering behind palms.

Dream feels sweat pick up on his brow and waits desperately for the knight to show them to the castle.

They reach it after what felt like ages of walking, a large cobblestone tower decorated fully and intricately on the outside.

There’s not a single plant on the inside. It's too unfamiliar for Dream, who shifts his weight on his feet. 

Stepping inside are mounds and mounds of red velvet carpets, chandeliers, everything classic and fancy of the time. It feels a lot larger than it looks, imposes fear onto the three of them more.

Dream swallows when he sees a man, about if not taller than him himself approach. His hair is black, dishevelled and fanning into his face. His ram horns grow out of the side of his head, and his hair is dressed around it accordingly.

George bows cordially, nudging Dream subtly with his ankle to do the same. He drops into a bow, then lifts back up when the man says “stand.”

Jschlatt doesn’t look a bit like what he envisioned. Nor does his voice sound like what he imagined, despite his very lackluster imagination. 

Lackluster because of it's proccupation on other things. 

He doesn’t wear kingly attire, more casual clothes? Dream doesn’t know what to call them. Black leather pants and a black jacket with a red cravat. Dream blinks. The man clears his throat.

“King George,” He addresses politely.

“King Jschlatt,” George responds cordially. 

“What brings you here today?” He asks out of politeness, and something in his voice doesn’t settle him.

“Matters that are best discussed in a closed environment.”

Jschlatt frowns. “Right of course, my apologies. Follow me,”

George shoots Dream a glance, sharing a hint of worry.

Dave and Dream share a look immediately afterwards and make themselves comfortable on any nearby seats they could find.

They’d likely be here for a while.

\--

His feet feel sore from so much pacing, and the pain vibrates throughout his entire nervous system. Sending shockwaves back and forth, ranging from boredom to anxiety. 

It’s silent, for way too long. He briefly wonders if Jschlatts murdered the man. Dream knows less about Jschlatt than George himself and hopes the man is rational enough to, at the very least, not uppercut a king trying to make peace with him.

The only sound is the lantern on the opposite wall flickering, his own slow heartbeat that thunders in his chest, and the sound of Dave snoring quietly.

He heaves a sigh and drags a hand down his face. The palm of his heel digs into his eyes briefly, feeling the weight of the day and his heavy imagination drag him down to the floor.

Damn gravity. 

Then he hears a shout, a scramble of papers and stands up immediately, kicking Dave in the ribs to wake the extinguished man up from his tired position. His steel-toed boots digging into his side as he pulls them from the thin and worn armour. Dave jolts awake with an annoyed expression, mouth moving to protest until he hears the noise as well.

Dream gently hovers a hand over the handle of his sword, unsure as to if he’d need it or not.

Jschlatt and George appear again, slammed out of a cabinet meeting room (as told by the gold engraving on the door), where George stumbles and loses his balance as he falls back onto the ground. The velvet carpet slides against his weight feebly and softens the blow, a side whimper slipping past his lips. 

Dream’s heart stops for the briefest second, feet connecting with the ground as he rushes over on instinct. Jschlatt stands above the man with a sneer and a condescending frown. 

“Get the FUCK out of my Kingdom.” He rasps, moving to grab George up from the ground with a hand balled in his shirt. The fabrics twists around his sharp fingernails and clenched white knuckles. “You think you’re tough, but you’re NOTHING.”

“Hey!” Dream shouts, cascading towards the situation as Dave forces himself off the ground with perpetual curiosity but no want to do anything. 

George and Schlatt both ignore Dream, George sneering at Schlatt with a contorted face, his furrowed eyebrows and clenched teeth pressing into his lips and drawing a bit of blood on the purpling bruise. “Not until you leave my people alone.” He growls.

Schlatt tightens his grip and quivers a lip up to show his canines threateningly.

“Get. Out.” He raises a fist up, beside his face. It’s meant to be a threat, but George doesn't cower like he’d expect a king to, only continue holding up his icy exterior.

Dream rushes in, flashes of red blinding his peripheral as his own knuckles connect with the side of Schlatt’s face out of instinct, watching the man stumble backwards as his hand flies to his cheek. Schlatts feet trip over each other, fumbling with his weak balance as he delicately runs a thumb over the wound. Dream sees his body snap like a rubber band back, and eventually watches his face as he turns back with a snapped face. Something is burning in his eyes.

Dream winces in pain, having taken off his gloves ages ago. He shakes his hand back and forth to alleviate the tension in his hand, reaching for George's hand. He grabs it with little to no delicacy or grace in it. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Dream-” George protests, as he slides down the wall from the previous impact. 

“I said now.” He demands, using the little power he commanded over George’s rationale to drag the man out of there. The hallway leads towards the exit-entrance, and he makes good pace, speed walking out towards the front before George got any more bloodied up. George stumbles to catch up, ankle twisted and sore as he hurried to keep up with Dreams lanky legs. 

“This is war!” Jschlatt calls with a pained tone from the other side of the hallway. Distinctly, Dream hears the sound of a different voice arguing with Schlatt. If he wasn’t running out of the castle with the King’s hand firmly in his grasp and his blood running cold, he’d probably guess it was his advisor.

They turn out of the castle and towards the horses, which are tied by the entrance. He doesn’t stop to wait for Dave, instead, letting his hand go and nudging George towards his horse. 

“Dream-” George tries again.

“We’re going. Now.” 

George doesn’t protest more, slipping onto the horse and letting Dream lead the way. He sees his face contort in pain as his ankle slips over one side of the horse, but he bites his lip to stay quiet. Dream clicks Spirit on desperately, manoeuvring through the crowds of people and eventually exiting through the half-opened gate. George follows behind quickly, apologising as best as he could to the people that holler and part as they run out of the scene. 

Like fools, George thinks.

Out of safety, Dream believes.

They ride for a few more minutes, watching the scene disappear behind them and into the forest again from the golden grass, as George struggles to keep up. It’s difficult to ride with an injured ankle, so as soon as they’re far enough away, Dream detours towards a small cave (more like a crevice) in some stone on a hill and hops off. The gravel crunches under his feet as he catches the little breath he has left in his lungs, trampling over delicate flowers to where Star has stopped. 

Dream loosely ties Spirits reins around the tree bark, giving them a gentle yet rushed brush of his fingers through their mane as he hurries back towards Star. 

George stops Star in his tracks, heaving terribly with the force of having to ride with god knows what else is injured. Riding itself was a test of endurance, Dream mentally notes as he unhooks George’s ankle from the stirrup. Dream offers his hand to George, who gazes at it for a split second.

George takes it with hesitance, letting his fingers slip delicately into the dip of his palm as he helps him down.

George stumbles on his footing a bit, tripping but catching himself as he leans into Dream’s tight grip on his hands. George, regaining his balance slowly, stays half-pressed up against Dream for a second, burying his face in his neck and letting his hands go limp in Dream’s. 

Dream breathes softly, letting the adrenaline die down through his body as he lets himself feel the warmth of George pressing against him. His face in his neck and his nose nuzzling against his skin with heavy breaths. He tries to bury himself in Dream, waiting for the pain to die down just a twinge. 

For now, he feels safe, letting the adrenaline slip out of him similarly.

Dream lets go of George’s hands, delicately wrapping his arms around the short boys back. George sighs with an unknown feeling into his neck, swirls of feelings climbing up as blood to warm Dreams' face. 

“Feeling alright?” He whispers.

George laughs crudely at how the situation went from dire to “feeling ok?” in a matter of minutes. 

“Let’s just- uh,” Dream stutters. scanning the area for any suitable seated position, but finds nothing other than the small of the cave. “You’re gonna, have to let go of me.”

George mumbles something into his neck, the vibration bouncing up slightly into his face as he pulls off. Dream briefly restrains himself from missing the warmth as he leads him towards the cave, one hand still delicately holding George’s. 

They sit down quietly, Dream unwraps some spare cloth from his own bag and grabs his flask of water. The water pours over the towel like water does, flowing with the chill of winter and softening it with all the delicacy of powdered snow, freezing it with all the harshness of winter. He hands the cool cloth to George, who presses it up against a half swollen eye with knowledge of healing. 

“What happened?” Dream asks, after a beat of silence.

George says nothing at first, still wincing at the pressure of the cool soothing his warmly-swollen eye.

“Jschlatt was brutally honest in his ideals,” He starts eventually. “To conquer our kingdom. Didn’t even try to hide it, he’s a terrible liar.” He remarks under his breath, pressing the cloth back into his eye and wincing. “I got frustrated with him, we got into an argument and he gave me this,” He takes Dream’s hand and taps under his right eye to signal the bruise swelling around it. “So naturally I got angry and he threw me out the door.” 

Dream blinks.

“He… wants to take over your kingdom?” He skips, delicately pushing the word _our_ out of his mouth.

George nods solemnly. “Yes. Detailed all the plans of how he’d do it.”

Dream swears. “Psychopath.”

George scoffs. “You’re telling me.”

Their conversation lulls back into silence. A full silence filled only with the sound of the crickets starting to chirp and the birds singing a last daylight song. 

“What about Dave?” George asks, worriedly. Dream shrugs, with all the knowledge on the situation as anyone else that witnessed it unfold. 

“I believe he can find his way back,” Dream reassure, “He does have the….”

“...The map.”

Dream scratches at the side of his face and whispers quietly to himself. “Shit.”

George squeezes his hand reassuringly. “It’s fine. I’m sure he’ll find the tracks. He’s perfectly capable.”

Dream rolls his eyes. “Certainly hope so.”

George scoffs fondly and smiles at him shyly, the same nervous smile he shot him back in August, when he first talked to him. 

He smiles with his eyes, ever as hesitant. He doesn’t mean smiles with his eyes in the sense that he smiled and his eyes did the crinkle thing: it means he genuinely smiled. As in, creasing slightly and holding a certain warmth only smiles emulated. 

The dip of his cheeks and his eyelashes fluttering against blue brown pupils. Dream finds himself smiling back, with his eyes softening in his gaze with the urge to bury his face under a piece of fabric.

He'd rather bury his face under his lips. Much rather.

He’s so fucking whipped.

Dream frowns quickly, ignoring the brightness in the other eyes. 

“Let's start a fire, in the meantime,” George suggests, “I think I need to eat and take a nap after that.”

Dream peers out of the cave opening, swatting away stray bugs to peer through the treetops. The sunset coloured the sky like kids with paint. Dream turns back to him, heaving a sigh. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll go get wood.”

George is reluctant to let go but releases his grip on him eventually. 

As Dream descends down the small hill, tying Stars lead next to Spirits, George remarks on how much he wished maybe he’d just protested a bit more yesterday. 

\--

The fire climbs high into the sky by the time the sun drips down the horizon and leaves the sky with remains of paint stuck to the sky. Trails of once vibrant palettes. 

Dream stares up at the rocky ceiling, tracing the cracks in the stone high directly above him. His lantern is set beside George, who’s curled up with a thin blanket. He’s shivering, Dream doesn’t blame him. It’s chilled, frozen out there.

Dream shifts a bit, hands resting on his stomach and kicking at the covers to try and find something he could sleep in.

He’s aware of the feeling of George shifting, pressing into his side. If it was real or fake George, he couldn’t tell. Nor did he bother trying to. He exhales a warm breath, then lightly tucks his chin under the knitted fabric. Chill air rushes a flush to his face, colouring his nose and cheeks a pink colour. George shivers into his side again.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, squeezing them open again and blinking away the colours dotting his peripheral. His eyelids flutter in exhaustion, and he turns towards the heat, resting his head on George’s shoulder, sighing.

George’s warm, and his soft embrace curling into his side is what lulls him to sleep eventually. 

God, he was so tired.

\--

He wakes up to George’s arms still wrapped around him, burying his face in his chest and warmly sharing body heat.

Dream doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even bother with flustering. He has a job to do, get George home, then he can worry about the daydreams.

He knows the difference between real George and fake George though, and lines are becoming a bit too blurred for his sanity.

Next, he might admit to himself he actually likes boys.

Romantically.

He scoffs and unties the reins, ready for a long ride ahead of them.

\--

The ride is long, and by the time Dave catches up with the two of them to show the way back, George is wide awake. No longer rocking in his seat, but forced to ride with one hand, the other covering his eye. His ankle is sprained, out of the stirrup as they make sure to walk the whole way. Even so much as trotting without the stirrup and with the sprained ankle could end in disaster. 

Dream briefly thinks about letting George just ride with him, but holds his tongue from implications that could be held if he were to say such a thing aloud. Doesn’t think he’d be able to contain himself. Thinks he might repeat the spring incident. 

This was going much too quickly for Dream’s liking, he decides, riding on in silence.

“Hey! The castle walls,” Dave calls eventually, and Dream breathes a heavy sigh of relief, urging Spirit on just a bit further. The sun’s pulled up into the sky by this point, days of restless and intermediate riding finally bringing them home.

Approaching the walls, though, he hears clipped voices and hurried screams. His lips drop into a worried frown and sees George’s face morph the same way. 

His thoughts are stretched thinly, desperately approaching the castle walls and hoping he didn’t hear what he heard.

All the air from Dream’s lungs though is syphoned from him immediately.

Everything’s burning. 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know when... you know when you start having maladaptive day dreams of your (best) friend who also happens to be the king because you’re his personal guard and you’re both boys and he shows up with bite marks on his neck and bruises on his lips looking all hot and shit and then points to you and says “you did this” haha bro so relatable
> 
> anyways my twitter is @raytick4, art absolutely makes my day so feel free to tag me in any you do :D thank you all for 8k hits damn!! (i wrote this prior to finishing the chapter wtf we're at 9k ty lot so much) i'm sorry im late but here we go :D thanks for reading, longer chapter this time with some food smh yw /lh thank you to my editor (avtorpp on twt) for suffering through my cringe LMAO, major props to them. as always tysm for everyone who leaves a kudos, comment, anything :D thanks to the people that make art too!
> 
> also dave isn't technoblade just to clear that up WUISFSLAD, techno is referred to solely as techno in this fic LOL
> 
> i will say one thing though and that’s that the day dreams are real: dream isn’t just kissing air as much as i want to think about it (please help) i mentioned it a few times but i wanted to clear it up :D
> 
> anyways as always, dont harass creators. see ya!


	7. [Intention]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the aftermath of the fires, a different fire grows hungry for something different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to warn for nsfw in this chapter.

\--

Dream’s heart drops into his stomach, plummeting past the feelings he previously had before seeing the fire swallowing the houses by the front of the gate whole. He freezes initially, clicking Spirit lowly to a stop. George’s face goes from confused to absolutely terrified, feeling the fear creep up his spine.

Dave’s the first one to move, who immediately clicks his horse on down the hill towards the gates, rushing towards where the gates were left wide open. Dream snaps out of his trance second, peeling his eyes away from the sick scene in front of him and syphoning the air out of his lungs. “George,” He presses. 

George snaps his head away from the scene and watches as Dream clicks his horse forwards, regaining feeling in his body again a few seconds later as he gallops forwards. Dream presses backwards, letting Spirit take the reins for just a second as he topples his way down the hill.

Once he reaches the front of the gate, he slips a foot off the side of Spirit and clambers down, his feet landing in the soft grass path. His footsteps race against his ears, turning around to check to see if George was following, who he was, and then turned back to the gate.

The doors were left open, branches of people screaming as others struggled to pour water over the flames, which only made some climb higher. 

Dave rushes directly into the fire.

_Hollers litter the air around him, shrill screams that tear through your flesh into your bones. Dream-- is that his name?--’s snapped into his thoughts by the feel of a woman shoulder checking him, running for her life. With glazed-over eyes, he watches her movements, the way she runs as if her life depends on it and the crackle in the background._

_He grips a tight blanket to his chest for a second, glazing back to the green wool in his hands. It smells so much like pine, like something he can’t remember. As if it means something, anything. His gaze lingers on it, watching the way the fibres melt from his hands, fire crackling and swallowing it whole._

_He stares back up at the scene around him, with trembling hairs rising on the back of his neck and his throat becoming clogged with smoke as it smothers him. Crackles rise from the fire, scorching the houses clean of their wooden foundations and stripping the house he grew up in. The castle stands in the distance, blown to smithereens with the sounds of cannons echoing in the distance._

_George stands quietly, watching the terror unfold around him, watching the castle fall to the ground, brick by brick. Watching his home be smothered by the fire and the people scorched alive. Singed into his arms are the reminders of his past._

Dream’s throat restricts and some part of his brain wants to tell himself to put the thoughts down, bury the image away. He’s only lathering his own wound in salt and it hurts so bad and he wants it to stop.

He stands amid the chaos, the flames licking at his skin and fire tirelessly warming up the cool winter climate. He’s stuck, frozen to the floor, eyes scanning the ground with an unfocused look.

“Dream!” George’s voice snaps him back into reality, whom of which cascades towards him, cape trailing as he struggles to take it off. 

“I know someone, follow me.” Dream hesitates, his feet planted into the ground for a moment before he turns back towards the castle and runs. His feet scuff the cobblestone path, scratching at the bottom of his feet and sweat dripping down his brow. 

George follows at a distance, huffing as he struggles to keep up with Dream’s longer legs. A clatter echoes through the air, George huffs, flames burst and crackle. 

“Where are we going?!” George shouts through the chaos, pushing himself to keep up as Dream rounds corners and ends up only slightly past the gate. The city, Dream thinks bitterly, is too big to run through. He makes his way over to a gap in the cobblestone wall, just a sliver lower than the rest of the walls but enough for him to climb with relative ease. 

“There’s a house,” Dream shouts, “In the middle of the spruce forest by the right gate. We can’t run through the city but we can climb up this wall.”

Discarding their horses was a terrible idea, Dream thinks retrospectively. He rounds into the alleyway and immediately latches his hand onto the wall, sliding his feet into a small crevice by the bottom that could barely hold his toes as he struggles to bring himself up.

His knee bends at an odd angle as he stretches quickly for the next gap where his gloved hands can slip in, pulling himself up the wall. “Come on!” He shouts to George, who stares at him wildly. 

“I-I can’t climb!” George yells. “Can you go by yourself??”

“I have no influence over this man, you might.” Dream despises the idea but holds out his hands as he sits halfway up the wall. 

George looks at his palm with hesitance, then gently rests his in the dip in Dream’s palm.

No time to think about the warmth of another man’s palm in his own, Dream grips his hand tightly, lacing their fingers together for better stability (at least that’s what he tells himself) and drags George up with a struggle.

George has to fumble to grab onto the tiles and slot his feet into the stone, following Dream’s lead with caution as he receives a helping hand up to the top of the wall.

Dream slides his feet over the top of the wall, briefly glancing at the flames behind them, and seeing how high they climbed. He turns back to George, who swings a foot on the edge of the wall a few seconds later. He’s huffing for breath, looking at the drop beneath him and swallowing.

Dream’d probably say something cheesy like “on the count of 3,” but instead he merely squeezes George’s hand and jumps without further warning. George, who was hardly prepared, yelps. Dream rolls skillfully into the soft grass onto his back, air knocked out of his lungs as he realizes he let go of George’s hand. 

George falls a few moments later, not so skillfully landing on his back next to Dream. He coughs a broken breath, air kicked out his lungs harshly and his back surely creasing with pain. Dream gets up easily and looks to the half injured George, who rubs at his ankle painfully, hissing. Dream quietly stands up, brushing his knees off and looking at George, who lies on the ground with his hands by his head, furrowed brows. His elbows bend and he has this innocent look on his face. 

Dream pushes away the thoughts that distract him from his task quickly. These were becoming bothersome. 

Quietly he flushes, engraving the image and offering him his hand. George, frustrated, grabs his hand and pulls himself up, wobbling on his ankle slightly.

He’s aware they’re in a time-compressed situation but still turns his hand in his own. “Are you fine to run?”

George whines beneath his breath. “Yeah.”

Dream swallows past specific thoughts, holding his hand tightly again as he turns towards the forest, at least a decent run away. He clicks his tongue and wipes the sweat off his brow with his free arm, breaking back into a sprint.

George huffs, being dragged along and squeezing his hand nervously. 

“Who is this man??” George stutters between bated breaths.

“His name’s Ph1lzA, local magician, or whatever the fuck the term is. He can put out the fires.”

George audibly frowns. “Right.” 

They continue running in tense silence. Dream heaving his breaths slowly as they turn into the forest eventually, minutes later. 

Dream skillfully pushes past the low hanging branches, crunching the leaves that dust the floor and the little snow that dusts the frosted dirt of the thickly wooded forest. 

They turn eventually towards a rocky cliff, with some stone breaking the moss gathering at the top of the dirt path.

Dream draws a practised symbol on the stone, tapping it in a rhythm familiar to him.

The air goes cloudy for a moment, and as it clears they’re staring at a huge underground palace. It’s blue and cold and full of supplies. Large blue roots grow in the middle. It’s large, dominating, stalactites hanging from the ceiling and blue glass intricately carved around the ore filled cavern.

It’s exactly as Dream last remembers it. The bewitched snowy ceiling, the silver and white lining the area, the ice that glittered at his feet.

“Wait-” George tugs on Dream’s sleeve, who was about to open his mouth to call for Phil.

“Hm?”

“Did- did my father know Phil?”

Dream quietly shakes his head. “I don’t know, George.”

George frowns and nods, tucking his chin into the fabric of his jacket. Dream turns back to the echoey cavern, opening his mouth to say something.

There’s a familiar pop, the fabric of space crunching then exploding inwardly onto the railing separating the paths around the cavern and the main attraction of the roots driving towards the ceiling.

“Dream,” A man says, crossing his legs and sitting patiently onto the railing with a cup of tea in his hand. His relaxed posture is very contrary to the situation they came here for. His green robes tie around his waist and he kicks his loafers on easily. His blonde hair is dishevelled. He looks much older than Dream or George themselves.

“Phil,” Dream replies politely. “Happen to know how to put out fires?”

Phil, taken aback by the straightforwardness, clicks his tongue as his tea disappears from his hands. “Fires?”

“Yes. Fire.”

He bites his inner lip hesitantly, then turns to George with a nervous expression. Familiarity flashes in his eyes for a moment, reflecting a white cast over his blue pupils.

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

\--

“Here’s the plan,” Phil outlines on the blueprint table in a room by the edge of the cavern. It looks like a standard meeting room, but it’s decorated in blue and green and decorates half the surface with strange, unfamiliar plants. Coming in all sorts of colours and some borderline glowing as they twist unnaturally. Some plants have parts hovering over each other.

George swallows.

“I need you two to throw these--” he gestures to some potions that swirl a light pink with bubbles foaming at the top, shaped handles looking somewhat familiar to the concept of a “splash potion”. “--Around the square. Corner of the castle, the cottages, and especially in the direct middle. I can go in and--” he looks at George and winces. “Do my thing, for lack of a better explanation.”

“That sounds good,” Dream conveys properly. “What are those?”

“Resistance potions,” Phil replies as if George and Dream were following. “They won't rebuild the structures, I can’t place matter that doesn’t already exist, however I can put out the fire.”

“...What’s matter?” George asks tentatively.

Phil purses his lips. “Long story that I doubt we have time for. Here.” He hands a satchel to Dream with the potions and a satchel to George as well. They both drape the satchels over their shoulders, looking back at Phil in sync, who looks a bit put on the spot. 

“There’s a portal over by the dark corridor, go through it and you should be back in the square.”

George furrows his brow. “A- A portal? Into the town?- Hold on-”

“Don’t question it, George, let’s just go.” He grabs his hand again and leads him out of the room.

His head dips into a nod towards Phil, who nods politely back before they break out into a sprint.

They round corners, eventually finding the aforementioned dark hallway, where the torches end and the hallway is slim. It’s coated in darkness, with a faint purple glow and crackle at the end of it.

“Come on,” He gestures, fumbling through the thin passage.

George struggles to follow, having to walk sideways awkwardly while making sure to be careful with the potions that clink against each other in his bag. 

Dream steps tentatively towards the portal, a dark black substance surrounding it. 

It feels warm, hot. Like stepping through would burn you. Dream reaches his fingertips towards the liquid looking entrance, seeing the way his fingers disappear through the swirling purple. George gulps nervously, despising the idea of stepping through something that looks straight out of a mythology book. 

“Dream- is this safe?”

Dream looks to him, who has up to his elbow stuck through the warming portal despite the end of the hallway being right behind the purple swirl.

“Well I’m still here.”

George blinks, not bothering to ask out of the crunch of time.

Dream squeezes his hand familiarly and steps through the portal fully, dragging George through it.

George nearly pushes back, feeling warmth coat his skin and singe his fingertips like a bath of boiling water.

He shuts his eyes nervously, but once the warm water dissipates, he opens his eyes and sees the square. It’s still up in flames.

Dream drops his hand. George frowns.

“Do you know what to do?” Dream asks tentatively once more, turning back to look at him as he shuffles through his satchels. He grips the splash potions easily, whole George fumbles to hold one correctly in both of his hands.

“Yeah.”

No.

\--

Dream’s feet pound against his ears, the tireless feeling of running around the area with a set intention climbing up and mounting itself on his tireless supply of stress. He skids past fires, feet scraping the scorched floor as he rounds corners easily. 

Dream sees the side of one wall approaching him, and he briefly has to dodge Phil, who looks tirelessly stressed in his shoulders. His face is so grim as he looks out onto the onslaught of flames, murmuring stuff in different languages and beating his dark, heavy wings. 

He splashes the potion on one end of the perimeter, ends up splashing the next one by the front entrance with ease. 

He’s unsure what happens after he’s splashed all 3 of his potions, and George all of his, but he makes way towards the castle, pushing past the frightened mob as efficiently as he could.

He passes George, who runs from the right side castle and towards the left gate. His face parted delicately in a struggle for air.

“George,” Dream calls, to which George promptly perks up from watching his own footsteps with bated breath. 

“Dream,” George lingers, pausing in his tracks, holding a final potion out of a half-empty bag.

He’s not sure what he wanted to say originally, just stares at him for a second like an idiot. “Last potion?”

“Yeah,” He breathes, panting. “Western gate.”

“Right.” He nods, then turns back to his track. “Sorry I-”

“It’s fine,” He remarks, continuing on his path.

Dream quietly baits his breath then continues back on his path.

He throws the final potion not a moment too soon, letting the glass shatter and discard at his feet as the liquid immediately turns into a cloud of orange smoke when it makes contact with the air. It swirls into the air like the rest did, making a gentle cloud above where it was thrown and lifting slightly in the breeze. 

He stares at the cloud for a moment, unsure what he was supposed to do now, with the glass drawn around his boots and scratching the ground. 

He fixates on the orange dust for a brief second, watching the way it moved across the wind. Almost as if it existed in its own little space bubble, impenetrable by worldly natures like the wind.

A loud clattering rings through his ears, though turning around he’s aware it should be too far away to hear the sound of glass shattering. 

There’s a silence for a moment, just one tick of an old metronome that no longer beats correctly, then the hard beat of wings and the flames crackling and screaming as they sizzle out.

They die down with a rush of air, knocking Dream back a few paces into the nearest cobblestone wall. They screech, holler, whizz down until all that’s left is the silence that lingers as the last of the flames crackle out and die.

Dream lets out a tense sigh and immediately regains his balance to go find George.

George’s sat by the fountain by the western gate, solidly a 5 minutes run away, groaning and rubbing his forehead as he struggles to stand up.

The wind that’s knocked him down simultaneously drains the air out of his lungs too. Dream clatters against his own footsteps, shoulder checking Phil as he rushes from one area to another. He rounds the corner instinctively, finds George on the ground rubbing his temples, and sighs a breath of relief. 

“You okay?” Dream rests a hand in his pockets. George exhales, frustratedly.

“Sort of. You?”

“Better.” 

_“No! Stay back,” George cries, standing away and huddling close to himself. “I don’t want to talk to a traitor.”_

_“George,” Dream tries, with the direct cause of his words burning a hole in his heart._

_He’s aware his skin is burning off, he’s aware the fires have gotten to him. He’s aware he’s trying to scream._

He reaches his hand out to George with a wince, the latter of whom stares at it for the briefest second in time before he locks their hands again. His skin is warm, palms clammy and his skin searing with the pain of what would probably develop into minor burns later.

_“Please!” He cries, fit of pain seizing against the very thing he swears to never be._

_George says nothing, horrified as Dream melts alive, feeling every pain about it. Every way in the fire licking his skin and tearing his muscles off, turning his back towards him and running as quickly as he can to save himself._

Dream frowns, and quickly pulls George closer towards him, shifting his hand into his other and rubbing his other hand over the burn wound. George yelps at the sudden movement then hisses quietly when Dream traces a finger over the wound.

“You’re hurt.”

“So are you,” George remarks, moving his free hand to lift his mask up and rub the pad of his thumb past the scratch that drags down his cheek and onto the light blonde stubble he had growing.

“And? What’s your point,” Dream jokes, pushing his mask up into a more comfortable position on his hair, which is let loose from his hair tie. 

George frowns and looks up at him with a look of disbelief. “Nothing.” He murmurs, pulling his hand away from his face and waiting for Dream to let go of his wrist, tugging them a little too close for comfort.

Dream coughs, realises his mistake and lets go, taking a step backwards. “Sorry,” He quickly retreats.

George rolls his eyes. “Maybe you should stop pampering me and find Philza instead?”

Gears click behind Dream’s eyelashes. “Oh, right.”

“Dumbass.” George grins, pacing himself easily towards the building, before promptly falling onto the side of the building. “Ok maybe just _you_ find Philza.”

Dream’s reluctant to let George stay on his own, so he walks back towards him and ducks slightly. George, confused, lifts his arm up to rest his arm on his shoulder as Dream moves and wraps his other hand around his middle.

“Is this any better?”

George’s face is no longer grinning, now painfully red from a fluster. It looks like his skin might fall off, singed. 

“Sort of,” He mumbles lowly, moving his arm that’s wrapped around Dream’s shoulder to be more comfortable for him. Dream hums. “Are you sure this is effective?” He stabilises himself on actual land again, huffing a sigh of disappointment and muttering curses under his breath.

“Until we get back to the castle and a proper medic can take care of you, yes.”

George looks on the verge of burying his face in the loose shirt he wears, grumbling incoherent swears under his breath. Dream carefully stands, making sure George can follow at an easy pace.

“I step, you just follow, alright?”

George mumbles something under his breath, and Dream takes it as feeble agreement as he gently walks towards the fountain. George lags behind a little, limping on his ankle and hissing occasionally when wind or fabric meets his burn. 

They’re not yet at the fountain (not even close) when Philza struts towards them. Well, less like struts but more leisure walks. And less like towards _them_ but more towards the portal likely opened somewhere in a deep alleyway.

Dream turns to Phil, opens his mouth to say thanks.

Phil shakes his head and waves. “Don’t start any more fires.”

Dream offers a polite smile. “Thanks.”

Phil doesn’t say anything more, slides his loafers across the chilled wind and moves to the warmth of the portal.

\--

Dream hates this day with every peculiar edge of his being. 

The medics scramble immediately as soon as they hobble towards the castle, taking George from Dream’s shaking arms and leading him somewhere where they can soothe his burns and heal his ankle.

Dream sighs at his feet, walking very slowly behind them. The hallways stretch out like they always do, and Dream makes a point to walk as slow as possible so he’d be going somewhere but not before they finished tending to George like frantic maniacs.

Well, they were on a payroll. Sort of. 

Dream sighs heavily and twirls his figure up as he continues back towards the staircase. He sighs, kicking the occasional pebbles as he ascends up the carved staircase into the second floor.

By the time he reaches George’s room, a few medics leave with sweat marks on their brows. 

“Is he alright now?” Dream asks.

One lady nods. “He should be ok,”

He hums and pushes George’s room door open without a knock. George, knowing only Dream could possibly enter his room with the balls to not knock, looks up from where he sat in front of a mound of pillows.

“They pampered you to death yet?” Dream jokes.

George rolls his eyes and swipes a thumb over his slightly bruised lip. When did that develop?

“Not yet, but they just might.”

Dream chuckles, pulling a chair from George’s desk and sitting by the edge of the bed with a lax position.

“What’s the verdict?”

“Hm?” George asks, from fiddling with the straps on his bandage, the fabric tightly hugging his wrist. He keeps picking at his sleeves, trying to roll them up. Dream frowns at the gesture.

“I mean to your burn and ankle.”

“Oh,” George replies simply, “It’s not too bad. It’ll heal pretty soon. Ankle should be fine in two or three days.”

Dream hums. That didn’t sound too bad. He voices as much.

George scoffs. “True, I’ve sustained worse in my childhood.”

Dream perks up. “Oh?”

George hesitates for a moment, feeling like he’s treading on icy waters with a half broached subject matter. “Well, I broke my tailbone apparently badly enough when I was young that it became deformed.”

“Well that explains the shit sitting posture.”

George scoffs. “Shut it. You sit like an old man.”

“I am an old man.” 

“You’re 20.” George quips.

Dream puffs a laugh and rests his arm around the back of his chair. 

“I also broke my wrist when I was like what- 8?”

Dream blinks and raises his eyebrows suddenly. “Eight??”

“Yeah.” George falters. “Healed in a week.”

Dream’s truly astonished now, his own _sprained_ wrist took nearly a month to heal properly. Worst month of his life, he hardly picked up a sword without feeling immense pain that trickled down his nerves. 

His palms lay calloused in his lap now. George’s skin is smooth in comparison.

That derailed quickly.

“How-?”

George shrugs with all the knowledge of a child. “Hell if I know. Nobody else knew either.”

Dream blinks. “Well, now you’re going to tell me you’re half-elf or some shit,” He leans back into his chair, legs stretched out lazily in front of him.

George kicks at the covers which pamper and seal his body heat as he sits back up onto the mountain of pillows. “I think I’d know if I was half-elf.”

He wheezes. “No you wouldn’t. You’re solidly the dumbest person I’ve ever met.” Dream retorts back, though it’s hard to keep the corners of his mouth from pinching upwards carefully. 

A pillow whacks him in the face like an uppercut, and Dream moves back to wheeze like a high pitched tea kettle. George laughs too, the laughter infectious.

“Shut up.”

Dream’s hands are in the air, a light chuckle lapping from his lips, surrendering himself. He only grins through the painful wheeze and is met with another pillow as he falls off the chair from the force with a resounding OOF. 

“Stop looking at me like that, you look like a moron.”

“What am I supposed to look at you with? Heart eyes?”

George chortles a laugh and kicks Dream’s ankles once he’s back on the chair by his bedside. “I’ll throw another pillow at you.”

“That’s my line, Georgie.”

George’s smile stays stuck onto his face, the nickname feeling like honey onto the back of his tongue. It’s been a while since he’s heard that, huh?

“Stop,” Dream snorts.

“What?” George snaps out of my thoughts.

“Making that face.”

He laughs and leans backwards, swirling the water in his glass. (He was holding a glass?) “Why? Afraid you’ll fall for me? I know I’m sexy but-”

“Oh my god shut up.”

When his eyes glaze back to Dream, he’s laughing, suppressing a chortled choke and you can see it on the strained red of his face.

“Don’t die before I get to kill you,”

He snorts, and wheezes at the sound of how stupid he sounds.

The music in his tone hasn’t slowed, it’s gotten louder. Laughter dances animatedly around the air.

Though the infectious good mood dies quickly, the air is still left warm, hanging quietly by the rails of the ceiling. Dream continues to grin easily.

\--

The sun should dip below the horizon soon, and though the midday laughter has teased their ability to breathe long enough, Bad’s finally walked into the room to discuss the events of today.

Everyone’s silent for a painful time, no more hearty laughs or distinguished jokes thrown between them. Just the tense, uncomfortable air that caked Dream’s lungs with bile.

“So,” Bad started. “I was talking with the rest of the cabinet, and we have a uh-” he stutters. “Well, vague idea of what happened.”

George perks up. Not in the interested way like they had a funny conversation, but the demand to know what happened to cause so much pain to his kingdom. To cause the destruction that’d cost millions and would certainly leave thousands homeless or semi-homeless for a while.

“We caught two prisoners sneaking out after the fire. Elementals. One that looks like an outcast Jinn-- the other one’s part Phoenix. Soldiers from Wravanoid.”

George frowns. “Their names?”

“The tall one-- the Jinn claims his name’s Wilbur. The small one wouldn’t budge, but Wilbur revealed it’s Tommy when talking with our guards.”

Now Dream’s frowning. “Jschlatt set this up as an attack? I don’t understand, George sent the first letter.”

Bad shrugged. “His intentions are unclear, whether this is tied to the farm and crops disappearance is unsure but yes, it was a set up.”

Painful pause.

George drops his eyes to the arms crossed in his lap. “I was used.”

“George-” Dream starts.

“No, Dream, they take me for a weak ruler.” He continues scanning his hands, twisting them painfully yet slowly in his own grasp. “That’s why he was honest.”

“He seems to have had no faith in his soldiers to not get caught, apparently.” Bad chimes in. Dream’s still watching George with a faint look.

“George?”

“I’m-” He fumbles for the right thing to say. Taught his whole life to never lose words. He was the king, held up to the highest standards of the rest of the world.

“Bad, I think you should go,” He finally finishes. Bad hesitates for a second, then nods sympathetically and stands up, bowing delicately to George and nodding at Dream with a worried glance.

“See you later, Your majesty.”

The room is left in silence.

George carves a pattern in his knee, staring blinding down at the floor. “George?” Dream hums, tone soft and smooth, unlike the usual daylight voice.

“He took me for a weak ruler,” He scoffs and turns back to Dream. There’s a small, virgin fire burning in the back of his eyelids. “And he proved himself right.”

“There’s no way any of us could’ve known.”

George goes silent, and the information clearly falls in one ear and out the other. Holding the guilt of the world. “You’re not the one who set the flame, did you?”

“No, but I let them. I’m the king.”

He didn’t get the choice to be or not be king, not many people take the time to recognise, leaving him the frontal assault of a lot of attacks.

Dream sighs tiredly. “It’s not your fault. No- don’t say shit. I don’t care, you went to make peace and Jschlatt only incited a war that he started over some _crops_ that weren’t even his. You’re doing the best you can for everyone.” His gaze softens. “War happens. I’m sorry.” 

George sighs and drags a hand down his face. “It’s fine. I’m going to go to the garden to think for a minute.” He manages between wrangled air torn straight from the asscrack of his lungs.

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

George shakes his head and stumbles off the bed, slipping onto the floor as easily as he can. He winces a little less this time, and sighs. He gives a subtle wave of his hand, flicking his wrist towards the door. “It’s fine.”

Dream watches him leave the room and sighs.

This man. He’s going to drive him mad.

\--

“You’re a little bit sad,” The imitation of George jokes. Dream rolls his eyes as he walks into the empty hallway, winding down the carved staircase on the opposite side of where George left minutes ago. 

“Don’t need to remind me.”

“I feel it’s important to note,” George’s tone is friendly, neither condescending nor seriously. Light. 

Dream sighs, the weight of the day crashing his shoulders and taking bites out of his wealth of tension. He prys against the heavy feeling of responsibility on his shoulders, metaphorically dropping it onto the ground behind him as he keeps walking with his mind’s version of George.

Glaring his own milky green eyes down in the window’s soft reflection, they look glassy. They look fake. Beautiful, ethereal, but fake. 

“Are you okay?” George asks, the teasing tone in his voice dropped. Dream’s gaze lowers. 

“In what sense are we talking about?” He itches at his arm uncomfortably.

“I don’t know,” George sighs fondly, tirelessly. “Everything?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a mess.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Hoping George can pick up on it. He can because he’s not real, he’s literally in his head. He has to remind himself he’s not real. 

“I am real.” 

“Don’t say that,” he whispers falsely. “Don’t give me that feeling.”

“...Hope?”

Dream purses his lips. “Yeah. that.”

His voice echoes faintly across the large stone hallways. It’s deserted by this point, the faint moonlight dripping past the windows and curtains and embracing him with chilled winds and November airs.

“Do you wish it was? More real, I mean.”

In a way, he does, wants George to open up more to him, wants to have the courage to press him against a wall and pepper kisses over his neck.

These thoughts won't go away, he remarks with a frown.

George blinks. “It’s alright to admit it, Dream.”

Dream blinks out of his trance. “What?”

“Liking other men.”

Dream frowns passively, and he thinks his lips might stay that way if he keeps frowning. 

He sighs, for lack of a better term, and closes his eyes for the briefest second, letting his emotions run their turmoil before he opens up to the real world again.

George looks at him curiously. There’s a glint in his eyes, tapping Dream’s neck.

“Wh-”

“Sorry,” He whispers. “Habit.”

“Of tapping other peoples necks?” He chuckles fondly, a softening gaze following his lighthearted statement.

George rolls his eyes. _“Making sure you’re real.”_

“What does that mean?”

George shakes his head and doesn’t elaborate. 

The silence drenches the atmosphere. His throat clicks as he swallows a sigh, looking back towards George.

He looks too real for his imagination. He never had the most realistic imagination, but George feels real here, looks real. Even the moonlight bounces off of him as if a tribute to say that he’s there.

His lips are slightly bruised, chapped. Irritated from licking the top so much.

He finds himself tracing a line over his jaw with his eyes, moving slowly into his personal space. George looks up from staring in front of him, diverting his eyes directly into Dream’s.

He blinks slowly, eyelashes fluttering against the pale moonlight. Rose-coloured insanity drives him mad, he’s so pretty. So fucking pretty.

“Don’t just stare at me.”

Dream traces his cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Why not?” he asks, strolling into George’s personal space, who gulps down a shudder. Dream tilts his head down to meet the man’s eyes, cupping his jaw in the dip of his palm. 

George’s eyes lazily drift over his face, faint moonlight casting a reflective white light over his face and peeling off his pupils. He gulps down a shudder, heat rushing to his face. 

Dream’s starving, hands running down the latter's face with a sort of intent that’s chained back by half-broken leashes. It’s soft, his skin is soft. His fingers graze over his skin feather-like, pushing past a breath. 

Silence coats his lungs bitterly, like spice but brimming with anticipation. It itches on his tongue and claws at the roof of his mouth, teeth sinking into the flesh of his cheeks. Shoulders anything but lax.

Coherent comprehension was out of the question, with George’s heart shuddering in his chest and drawing blood all around the weaker spots of his body. Shaking knees, burning fingertips, boiled cheeks and glossy eyes. Red tipped ears and chapped lips that are opened ever so slightly. 

Dream glides a finger over the man's bottom lip, feeling the way his lip drifted under the pad of his thumb. George bristles a moment and shudders delightfully, melting into his touch. 

God, he’s hungry, so fucking hungry. It’s untethered, ravaging his body as he grasps the place where his jaw meets his neck and pulls the man close to him.

It was late enough that the long daylight hours robbed the two of the ability to drink in a situation and assess if anything was a good idea or not. It wiped them clean of their doubts, their fears, the negative pent up energy that stayed stored in the little compartment in the back of everyone's heads. 

“You destroy me,” he breathes against George’s lips, who’s staring at him with a patient flame, one that’s passive compared to the engulfing one raging at the pit of Dream’s stomach. He drinks the passive look on his face, unable to tear his eyes away from him. 

He destroys him in the best possible way, tearing down walls he didn’t know he’d built up instead of always feeling stretched and weak like watered-down tea.

“Is that so bad?” George responds with a teasing quirk of his lips.

Dream itches at his throat and breaches the distance himself, rupturing the cool air he always strived to have, one that nobody broke. 

Except for George.

He’s kissed plenty of gals before, only once a guy, who happened to be George. He hardly reckons it’d be much different, but this was George and in Dream’s mind he has his own category. 

It’s rough and fiery and all the things Dream swore he wasn’t, feeling the racing of the other man’s heart in his throat. His hand's grip at his jaw, fumbling to keep himself hold on reality as if he would simply lose himself if he didn’t.

He’d like to leave bruises, make his lips purple and sore and taste him for the rest of their lives. Dream never wants to get George’s taste out of his mouth, hold him here and kiss him for the rest of eternity. 

It’s way too stuffy in here for him, tugging at the hem of his sleeves and desperately pulling at his collar. Dream needs air, Jesus. Fresh, clean air. None of this sweat coated bullshit.

The sense of soft lips, quick and smooth, uncertain at first. Then the velvety, flaming taste of vanilla and the slick of his mouth, moving against each other, never wanting to pull away. Delicious and tender, completely indulgent secrets that remained their own muted stories for them alone. 

George’s hands fumble for his shoulders and wrap around his neck, trying to keep up with Dream’s raging wildfire.

He’s so hungry, he needs him so much, he thinks he’d suffocate without him. He nips at his bottom lip, swiping his tongue over the softened skin and George gasps, fumbling with the tunic on Dream’s shoulders, digging his nails into the fabric. 

Dream swipes his tongue into his mouth, prodding around and pushing backwards. George’s back hits the wall with a breathy gasp, firmly pushing back into the kiss. George makes choked noises and whiny moans as Dream stutters along, acting purely on fiery instinct. 

Dream eases back slightly, taking a deep breath when their lips only brush each other before George fumbles to grab his collar and drag him back in, gasping and humming past moans in his mouth. George’s eyes are so glassy and his pretty lips are already turning slightly purple. 

Dream digs his lips out of George’s mouth, hearing the way George's breath is shallow and almost pulls back for more before he guides himself to the pretty boy's neck, latching his teeth around the pale, unmarked skin.

George gasps deeply, a breathy whine drawn out of his mouth as he fumbles with his hands. Dream sucks a dark mark into his skin slowly, satisfied when he heard the boy under him make strangled, unintelligible noises. 

He moves his way around, biting in and leaving marks that’d leave raw, rainbow-coloured marks in the morning. He’d be able to still feel him afterwards, make him whine when he pulled off and didn’t give him enough. Moan just thinking about him. He wants to occupy his thoughts, drive him wild. Make sure he thinks of nothing and nobody except the feel of Dream against his skin, marking him. 

George cries out for a second, hands shaking as he tilts his head back onto the wall, panting. “Dream-” he murmurs, cut off by Dream gently licking past that specific spot on his neck.

George gasps and moans shuddered and broken out like a waterfall. Dream grins into his neck, biting back into the area and leaving George unthreading in his grasp. 

“Yes, George?” Dream mumbles into his neck, his breath hot against the raw skin and the dark marks that splattered all over his collarbone. There’s no way he’s covering all of this up in the morning. George admittedly feels the tingles rise up his neck as he struggles for air, face burning up like a wildfire. 

“Please-” he breathes and stumbles for the back of his shirt, a hand gripping at the back of his hair. “Don’t stop, please.” 

Dream mumbles a string of curses into his neck, dusting his free hand over the reddening bruises on his neck. He thinks he looks even prettier marked up like this, just his. His glance into glassy eyes is predatory, capturing his mouth again into a firm kiss. George fumbles, shaking under him as his back scrapes against the cobblestone wall. 

He wraps his legs around the boy's hips, Dream pressing their bodies together and running the other free hand he has across his inner thigh. Slowly, he rolls his hips.

George moans, this time loudly, dirtily. Dream presses his face to his ear, grunting lowly. “Like that, huh?” George doesn't answer, only whimpers.

“Please please please please-” He ruts against him, moving his hips to the best of his abilities with his back against the wall. Dream rolls his hips teasingly, slowly. George clasps a hand over his mouth and bites his palm to keep from unthreading, throwing his head back against the cobblestone and clenching his eyes shut.

Dream, gently manoeuvring his hand away from his mouth, stops the stutter of his hips. 

“I want to hear you.”

Breath escapes his lungs, flushing his skin with colour. Languid like liquid, smooth and thick like honey. George pants, looking at him with hooded eyes as Dream ruts against him again, harder, quickly. 

“Ah- fuck!” He yells, gripping his shirt. “Do that again.”

Dream grunts shallowly, pressing one hand into his shoulder to keep him back and the other on his hip. The animalistic need to make sure he remembers every part of what he feels like. Friction causes delicious feelings in his lower parts, and certainly delightfully high pitched noises that George struggles to withhold. 

He sighs against his lips, picking a steady rhythm that leaves George making unintelligible noises beneath him.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he whimpers past broken moans. “Yes, yes yes,”

Dream breathes out a heavy sigh. “So good, George. So good for me.”

George sighs a breath from the praise, the untamed pulse in his lower half spreading to the tip and pulsing painfully. George can feel it, Dream can feel it. His face is so delightfully red, his crown is discarded and his clothes are a mess. With his hair dishevelled and his cape strewn over the floor, you have to wonder certain things.

There’s a voice which both miss, footsteps lightly turning the halls and rounding towards the corner where Dream had George pinned against the wall with sloppy noises littering the air.

“Dream?-” Sapnap rounds the corner, a strangled noise leaving his throat as he turns away. “Sorry! Sorry!” He fumbles away, seeing the situation in front of him and covering his eyes as he slides on his heel around behind him. Dream promptly pulls his lips off George’s and his body away from him, staring at the flustered expression Sapnap’s adopted.

Sapnap knocks into the wall behind him and groans, manoeuvring to the side and out of the hallway.

George turns towards Sapnap with hooded eyes, too out of breath to say anything or even laugh, letting his head drape back against the wall again.

“Maybe here isn’t the best place,” George remarks with a stutter of breath. Dream turns away from Sapnap and lightly presses feather-light kisses to his neck. George shudders. 

“I’m sorry.” Dream mumbles, nuzzling his nose into the crook.

George smiles easily. “It’s- uh, it’s fine.” He cards a hand through his hair, stealing a light kiss from Dream before he scurries off. His mind’s still swimming and he doesn’t feel as chilly anymore. Just a nice warm balance as he rocks closer to George’s body. 

It’s like swimming at first, sliding through the water carefully then pushing past ripples that form around you.

Dream gently kisses back, and George has to peel him off of him to go. Dream, displeased that he was interrupted, sighs and scurries off towards Sapnap.

“Wait-“ Dream calls after him.

Sapnap, who’s still covering his eyes, doesn’t look behind him. “Are you still going at it or can I uncover my eyes now?”

“You’re fine now—“ Dream stops in his tracks. “Wait a minute.”

“What?” Sapnap asks, tentatively removing his palm from his eyes and looking backwards towards Dream.

“You could see George?”

Sapnap blinks, confused. “Unfortunately yeah, you weren’t body blocking him that much, at least get a room next t-“

“That wasn’t real George, Sapnap.”

Sapnap blinks, the gears in his head whirring behind his eyes.

“Wait a minute.” Sapnap drawls, moving his hands from his pockets, “You mean to tell me that that George was—“

“The maladaptive daydream one.”

Sapnap blinks, confused. “How the fuck-?”

“I don’t know,” 

They both stare at each other in silence.

“I’m gonna go out to train, (“at this hour?” Dream interjects) I think from the looks of it you need to get your mind off things too.”

Dream nods slowly. 

“Yeah, no shit.”

\--

Dream wakes up from a night of sleeping poorly. Tormented, every time he opens his eyes he sees George sitting in the corner, with his eyes lidded and his pale skin marked. And every time he closes his eyes, he can still hear George’s whimpers and pleas.

When the sun finally rises, his eyes feel heavy and his daydreams feel too real to call them daydreams.

Dream forces himself out of bed and grabs his tunic, dusts off his cotton pants and slips into a pair of boots. The door opens to the hallway. Despite the sun barely rising, it’s already bustling with maids and servants and cooks. Dream licks his lower lip and sighs, taking only the few required steps to get towards George’s room. Merely 8 paces away.

Dream doesn’t knock on the door as much anymore. Sometimes it’s because he forgets, sometimes he makes the excuse George knows he’ll be there. Maybe it’s just him getting friendly. 

The door creaks on its way open, leaving Dream to see George sitting on the side of the bed, already awake. A new occurrence, considering the man valued his sleep so much. 

You can hear the birds chirp a song here, animals that fly by unknowing of their presence. 

The knock on the door makes George visibly swallow down a useless yelp to the sound of knuckles on wood.

His finger traces something on his neck and Dreams reluctant to make his voice or prescience known. He’s rubbing over bruises on his neck, olive and green and red and some are even purple. They look like bite marks— hickeys. 

They litter down his collarbone, especially prominent on the same spot where— where his spot was. On his neck.

Dream swallows heavily, recognising the pattern on the hickeys that lingered on his skin. They looked and were placed identical to where he left them yesterday. 

He makes a strangled noise and covers his mouth quickly, wishing he had thought to bring his mask. George whirls around to him, instantly pulling his collar up. “Dream, didn't notice you were here,“

There’s exhaustion laced in his voice, you can hear it. The bags circle under his eyes too. Dream struggles to not scream out of confusion. “I-I just got here, apologies.”

George swallows thickly and nods, turning away from Dream with a flush coming to alight both ears aflame.

Too many questions lingered past his mind's eye. Was it real George he kissed? Did he just happen to find someone else last night? Were the dreams connected??

Did George remember? Or even know it was him? 

Dream’s breathing shallows. George knows he’s seen it, to keep from suspicion he should probably make a joke, clear the air as if he didn’t know it was him himself that placed those there. 

“Seems someone had a good night while I was off,” God it sounds so unnatural, but it’s the best he can manage. 

George, still not looking at him and rather to the side, flustered even quicker. Blood warms his face easily, turning pale, marked skin into a bloody warzone. He looks embarrassed, contrasting to the pleasured look he had last night where he desperately rutted against him, threw his head back and moaned and begged for more.

Yeah, no, those sounds and that image is staying in his head for a while. 

“Shut it.”

Dreams primal instinct is to tease, let him know that he knows by pretending to not know. 

He suppresses it to the best of his abilities.

“Do I know her?”

George swears under his breath, mumbles something incoherent.

“What?” Dream asks, to which George moves his voice up only a tad to a whisper.

“Him,” he corrects. 

Dream might pass out. Legitimately, his head feels completely weightless and his heart is beating so slow in his body, pumping violently as it struggles to keep up the same amount of blood flow as a regular heartbeat. His fingers are singed with flames, his face is certainly colouring. He needs his mask— _right now._

“Oh.” is all he can reply with. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, no you don’t.” 

He knows in George’s eyes he’s lying. He hopes George can't see the lie behind his either. “Ah. Well, I hope you can still walk. We have a- a meeting with Bad, yes uh Bad soon.” 

Stop tripping over your words, he scolds himself, famously “composed” as his mind struggles to keep itself attached to reality. That was real George— or at least a rendition that transferred over. He kissed him, he literally murmured praise in his ear and left him enough hickeys to take days to die down, made him beg for more against his dick. 

Dream swallows, and his predatory instinct screams “ _Mine!”_ but he withdraws from it and slips back into his consciousness. The reasonable part of his mind he could deal with. 

George scoffs shyly, “We got interrupted. I can still walk, thanks.” 

Now he’s sure.

It tugs at his heart like poorly plucked strings, strumming ugly painful notes inside his chest. 

George’s eyes study him like a relic for a second. Dream briefly wonders if he could see right through him. Know that he knows. 

Dream’s never been so fucking scared of knowing what’s really going on. And yet, somehow content with not knowing the whole situation in its full entirety. It’s an entire contrast to his entire personality that leaves him reeling for a second.

“Ah, well tell—“ _Sapnap,_ his mind autocorrects, “the person that interrupted you to uh. Not say anything. You know how quickly rumours spread.” 

George nods solemnly, dusting a finger over his neck and outlining where Dream pressed a final goodbye kiss to the crease of his neck where it met shoulder. 

He’s going to explode, he’s going to lose it at this rate. 

“We should get going,” George murmurs faintly, tracing a line around the room with his eyes. “Bad’s probably worried sick.”

“What’re you going to do about the hickeys?”

George audibly holds back a noise, a small sound escaping his throat. “Well, it’s not like I _can_ do much, can I?”

Dream rolls his eyes then slaps the scarf he was previously wearing into the boy's hands. “Nimwit.”

George rolls his eyes fondly, tying the scarf around his neck. Dream nearly whines, not able to see the marks anymore, but holds it back with the little restraint he still has.

“Dumbass.”

If George knows it’s him, why the fuck didn’t they talk about it?- Dream’s mind lingers with a question.

He banishes it quickly, then steps out of the room. He’d deal with it later.

Maybe.

\--

The day moves by too long, and George looks absolutely sick by the end of it. He fumbles with his scarf and keeps it tight around his neck the whole day. Dream leaves it a muted secret between him and his brain, and he vaguely thinks he might need Phil’s help.

Again.

So many years of no contact and suddenly he needs his help with everything.

Dream sighs and picks at the dinner lied out on George’s bed. More bread and eggs, even some fruits. Dream brushes the glass half-full of wine by his lower lip, tracing over his bottom lip with the edge of the glass. He grimaces, pushing it onto the stand by George’s bed.

They sit in silence, and the world turns slowly around them.

“I’m going to declare war.”

“Wh-” Dream chokes on the bread he ripped with his teeth. “Are you serious?”

George nods solemnly. “I have no choice. The repairs are huge and people are going to get angry. Things will only escalate.” You can see it in his eyes, how painful it is to violate his own moral code.

“I’m not going to do it now but,” He tips his head towards the sunset. “I don’t know. After the ball, maybe.”

The last time Dream pranced around on his tip-toes to the sound of some worn-out music was 4 years ago.

“You don’t know?” Dream lets a breath twirl out of his lungs and onto his lap, a yawn threatening to break his composure tilting at the back of his neck.

George shakes his head, removing the scarf around his neck and placing it by the side of the bed. “No. I don’t.”

Dream sips some water carefully. War changes people, He supposes. Things come and go, that’s how life moves, the tune of its ever-changing waltz.

It begs the question of whether it was better to never have or to lose and have had. 

Nobody really knows which is worse. 

“You’re not alone in this, you understand?”

George blinks at Dream and nods, thankfully. He lets the softest, most fond smile drench his face. His eyes are so soft.

“Thank you.”

Dream’s got it so bad.

“You’re welcome.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> help.  
> kinda cringe NGL  
> hhhello i'm really not proud of this chapter but anyways thank you for reading and yeah once again my twt is @raytick4 so come chat with me over there if you want :D thats it for today, see yall later, byebye !!  
> \--  
> dont harass creators :) ALSO thank you for 11k hits BEJFBSNF


	8. [Decision]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George's inner person crumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for homophobia.

\--

George blinks the bleary sun out of his eyes, the weight of intentions for days to come resting on his eyelids. Pushing his eyes close, the narrative of his life pushes him down into the comforts of his own bed. Grounds him there with a weight no human being should be able to bear.

George sits up recklessly and rubs the tears from his eyes. Not tears from sadness, but the inherent pain of the morning sun drenching the daylight in his room over him.

Dream doesn’t wake him up, for once. George fidgets, looking, waiting for the man to burst in through the door as he normally does, maybe rant about Sapnap some more or even talk about his dreams.

It’s quiet. George shifts in his seat. 

He exhales quietly, letting any sorrow or any other emotion out of his system.

New day, new him, or however, the saying went. 

Pushing the heel of his palm into his eye, George slides off the side of the bed. His thoughts are muddled, coming in one ear and out the other randomly. The roosters haven’t even crowed yet, the sun is barely lidded over the horizon.

He waits for Dream, waits for his patient smile and creasing eyes. His boisterous and happy personality that devoured a whole room.

Maybe he overslept?

George grabs the lantern permanently resting by his bedside and starts towards the door, pushing it open with all the strength of a sloth as he cascades into the hallway. It’s still dimly lit by lanterns and only the faint sunlight peers through the window, only slightly dipping the castle into a rose-golden liquid. 

His shoulders are stiff, and his walk is too formal for this early in the morning. The light from his lantern peeks at the drowned castle as he walks by.

He ruptures his knuckles against Dream's door and opens it tentatively when all he hears is a low groan. 

The room is ever as bland, but it still reeks of Dream. His mask is discarded by his bedside, his clothes and armour are strewn about the table and his shoes are scattered around the bed.

It’s a right mess, but it screams Dream nonetheless and George finds comfort in that.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he taps the wood lightly this time.

“Good morning,” He whispers.

Dream shuffles in the bed and turns onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. Exactly half of him rests under the blanket, with one leg splayed over the sheet.

“C’mon,” He tries, a grin splitting his face. “Now’s not the time to fall into a coma.”

“Mngh shut it, you sleep innn..” he loses his train of thought briefly, as morning brains do. “More than I do.” 

George tackles the room, sidestepping clothes to land by the bedside and shoving his shoulder with gentle curiosity.

He doesn’t budge, and George is briefly reminded he’s lanky compared to him. 

“Bad’ll kill you if you don't wake up,”

A mumble of protest, Dream shifts his shoulder absentmindedly into George’s palm, like he was expecting a massage or something. 

“I’ll tell Ant,”

Groan.

“Fine, I’ll even get Velvet-”

“I'm up- I’m up,” He struggles obviously to lift himself, and when he sits up his hair is a disaster on his head. His bed head wasn’t great, nobody was, but it was a tad messy and stuck up strands added to the comicality of it all.

George’s briefly reminded how little of Dream he sees without his hair tugged back into a tight ponytail.

“Good morning,” He chuckles.

“G’mornin’,” Dream rasps. 

He’s struck with the realisation he’s never  _ really  _ heard Dream’s morning voice, which leaves him shell shocked for a brief moment as he recovers.

He’s heard some deep voices in his life, but some part of his brain tells him it's different.

George thins his lips to keep from saying anything and runs a tongue over his upper lip out of habit.

“We have a ball to prepare,”

“F’r your birthday, how could I forget?” He hums and digs a hand into his eye as he sits over the edge of the bed. George backs up from the proximity if only to restrain himself of borderline animalistic urges. 

“Are y’just gonna stare at me?” Dream chuckles lowly, and his eyes are scrunched to adjust to the sun. 

“Sorry,” George mumbles passively, averting his eyes.

“Wh? I never said staring at me was a crime,” He laughs again, warmly. “I get it, I’m incredibly attractive.”

He gets a fistful of pillow for that one.

\--

The day drones on, with subtle glances over his shoulders and his eyebrows permanently creased, George briefly thinks he might age quicker if he keeps at this.

There are a million things to do; nobody’s cooperating.

Velvet’s tried to talk to the head of war about repositioning some men to surround the walls, but he insists they still need training. Blabbering on as if they were still young boys that needed protection despite the rigorous training where they treated boys like men for years. So far, hardly any guards protect the gates.

Bad’s constant nagging about his birthday motherfucking ball has been left on loop for so long he hears it everywhere he goes. He’ll talk to Sylva about pancakes and all he’ll hear playing on loop behind him is “ _ the chairs are too stuffy the guests may not like them, the table settings have to be cloth, there will be a line of princesses ready to dance,” _

The people are getting angry at  _ him  _ for “letting the traitors into the city,” and some have started rioting. Only a handful, but others warn it could be worse if he doesn't address the matter publicly and outside the castle walls. 

Half his cabinet are borderline  _ begging him  _ to go to war and the others are halfway up his arse about finding a nice pretty pink princess and settling down.

(“ _ Sire, they will only continue eating our crops and killing our people if we don't retaliate,”  _ or “ _ PeOpLe ArE gEtTiNg WoRrIeD aBoUt YoU nOt BeInG mArRiEd AnD rEfUsInG tO mArRy OfF yOuR sIsTeR” _ )

He has a headache by the time he slumps down in the dining room’s seat, the grand hall ever as empty during the daytime. A few scattered guards, and then him and Dream by a table in the far left corner. 

Dream wordlessly slides him water in a wooden cup and drags a hand through his hair.

“I’m not even going to ask,”

Bad had dragged him out mid cabinet meeting to discuss stupid  _ chairs _ about the ball. CHAIRS!

George voices as much.

“Ouch,” is Dreams eloquent response. 

George’s left unsure what to say, so they sit in comfortable silence. Drinking in the little calm they could savour of their days. Dream’s probably just as overwhelmed as he is.

Tip the water down his throat. Let it clear his emotions.

Dream clicks his tongue and heaves a heavy sigh.

“Hm?” George responds.

“Nothing-- nothing,” He replies, zoned out over his shoulder. When George turns behind him he sees nothing.

He’s likely tired. George doesn’t blame him. George laces his fingers together and digits under the weight of an unknown circumstance.

He needs a break. Both of them, sitting in blistering sunlight despite the autumn leaves. Despite himself.

\--

The day ends as it begins, George sitting by Dream’s beside and chatting idly. What first catches his eyes is the subtle roll of his back muscle, then the groan as he reaches a hand backwards to coax the knots out of his back. 

He connects dots from before-- from taut posture and tired bones that ache where they conjoin.

George sighs. “Turn around.”

Dream blinks at him. “What?”

“I said turn around,” He drags his satchel off his shoulder from carrying messages like a paperboy and fishes for certain things.

Dream lets the lightest fluster dust his face. “If you wanted me so badly you could’ve said so.”

George bites his lip at the joke, holds his thoughts back. Restrains them. “Shut up, jeez I’m giving you a massage.”

Dream swallows. “Oh.” His voice is small, like a child. 

“Your shirt,” George demands when Dreams finally moved his ass to change how he sat on the bed, back facing the side. 

“I don’t think-”

“Dream,” George drawls, “I don't care if you have scars. Wounded flesh isn't going to change my opinion of you.”

Dream hesitates, then gently lifts his shirt up his back, the fabric hugging his figure before he discards it off to the side.

Tentatively, George sets his oils aside and draws a nimble finger around his shoulder blades. Drags a hand lightly down his back as he observes the toned muscle, pulled into heavy knots after years of rigorous knight training.

The younger man shifts in the cool breeze and cool hands roaming his back.”If this is the massage-”

George scoffs. There's not much he can say in this situation without admitting he was admiring his back. Scars and all. “Shut it”

Dream, for once in his life, does indeed  _ “Shut it” _ . 

He lightly uncaps the oil, scent of vanilla and pine that drowns the room. 

George stripes his hand across Dream's upper back and instructs him to breathe. The vanilla and pine fill his lungs, pressing against his ribcage as he takes a deep breath. 

When he exhales, George leans his hands between Dream’s muscles, slowly coaxing warmth into the tension with sustained weight. Dream feels the pain mist out of his mouth. 

Something loosens, and Dream’s vaguely aware of the fact that he wasn’t conscious of the pain until it’s removed, it’s sudden absence a dull ache. Dream’s throat clicks as he swallows a groan.

George’s fingers dig into knots, unthreading them gently. Fibres of weight held sustained through his muscles unravel delicately. They dig themselves out, alleviate pressure in points on his back. Dream tips his head down and exhales again, feeling his shoulders drop.

George thumbs around the ring of muscle, pressing into it and moving it into a relaxed position, drags his hand across his skin and coaxes the tension out.

Dream feels the weight of the day exhaust him, the tension leaving his shoulders and nimble, warm fingers dragging down his back. He offers no resistance.

George swipes his hand again through the muscle, the sets aside his hands, rubbing the excess oil off his fingertips. “Better?”

Dream breathes through his nose, making a content noise. “Yeah.”

Lingering touches teach warmth into strings of muscles. “Thanks.” He draws again, reaching a hand behind him to rub at the spots where his muscles felt unfamiliarly calm.

George doesn’t say anything, only hums.

\--

It had to rain.

But as the entire castle whispers with excitement and delight, the clouds shed their tears onto the ground. The gardens outside are drenched in wept tears and the grass is likely muddy, soaked.

George constructs a breath through the bile in his lung and breathes. Long day, it’d be a long day tomorrow.

When his feet finally drag him back to his room, he swipes the oil off his fingers and hears the rain pour delicately outside his window.

He’s a bit taken aback by his own rendition of his best friend, sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed. Dream-- not the real one, George scolds himself-- does his best to ignore him as he shifts closer like a cat drawing for attention.

Dream grins.  “Took you long enough.”

George catches one ( _ 1 _ ) glimpse of Dream’s back and now here he sits, only bandaged slightly across his chest and his shoulder.

“I was busy.”

“With other me, huh?” he’s cocky, smug. Not at all like the warmth real Dream radiates. Not like his honey smile or liquid love. None of that.

“No, not  _ other  _ you, real you.”

He’s spending a bit too much time with real Dream, leaving his sick daydreams aside. Perhaps it's for the better, but they still come back to haunt him. Real, yet not.

Fake Dream glances to the side and sighs.  “You can pretend I’m not here all you want.”

George does just that, ignoring his hard gaze as he makes towards his dresser. He pulls through cotton and linen, dyed and undyed fabric, and the thing he pulls out is the same shirt he always wears to bed. So many options.

“But that doesn’t change anything.”

“Why?” He asks aloud, moving to sift through his clothes. He shuts the drawer quietly and slips onto the edge of the bed. With newfound boldness, he looks Dream in the eyes.

He briefly forgot that even in his lingering imagination, his eyes pierced through him. Green, a faint emerald green. Dream looks a little down to face him, there’s a constant warmth in there. A blaze that sometimes rages with competition or with a home-y warmth. 

He melts under his gaze. 

“Why what?”

He forgot what he was going to say. “I don’t-” he mumbles, quietly, dripping like gold. “I don't remember.”

Dream hums. George tilts his head away, stares at the wall. Ignores him and his feelings.

“Ge orge,” He whispers faintly. Like the sound of his name on his tongue was nice, sweet. Like it was something he liked.

Involuntarily, his head snaps up at his name. Berating himself with practised gestures, he locks eyes with a soft-eyed Dream. He looks well, less confident. Less uptight. There’s an air of softness in his eyes, the way his back slouches slightly and unceremoniously. The way his fingers fidget in their gloves and as he tugs at his tunic.

George’s gaze feels a lot lighter now, brimming and boiling over the edge with a soft fondness irreplaceable by the rest of the world. 

He doesn’t do anything when Dream shifts his weight closer, partially leaning into his personal bubble. His hand moves up to trace his jaw, chip away at the exterior front he puts up. Afraid of the years of sharpening the edges of his personality, fibre’s tangled between fake and real.

He cups his face in his hand, holding his cheek softly. George’s face is soft compared to the sharp edges of the rest of his body, and inexplicably he finds himself melting into Dream’s palm. It’s calloused, George can feel that sure and true. He’s taken off the leather from his hands, letting his face dip into soft, real skin.

George bristles a moment, taken aback by the lull of warmth, then dips his head softly into his resting palm. Nuzzles against it and closes his eyes to draw away the shame. Dream lightly chuckles, remarks softly under his breath a word of comparison between him and a cat, and runs his hand across his cheek.

He feels delicate, sitting here in the warmth of his own nerves projecting onto his friend. Making him real, feel real. Look real, sound real. Sit in front of him and taunt him with the lust of the real world and the love of his heart's desires.

He knew it was fake, it’d always be fake, but he nuzzles into his palm and rests into it carefully. Let himself have just a moment to breath. Let his heart fill and brim with warmth, flood his starved body. Leave the world that was droughted of happy emotions for a few minutes. 

“You’re like a cat,” Dream chuckles. “Heabutting my palm like that.”

_ So very gently.  _

“Mmngh, shut it.”

Dream goes quiet, continuing to rub his thumb across his cheek. 

“Whatever you say.”

Dream cups George's hand with his free one. Drags his thumb across the back of George's and lets their fingers linger together, laced.

George dusts a thumb over the back of Dream’s hand, staring at it with a light heart. His barriers feel crumbled, letting Dream push past the stone and the rubble and walk into his head freely. Let him linger there and come and go as he pleases.

George drops their hands and sits by the flurry of pillows he regularly tosses aside. Dream watches him with ambient curiosity, moving his crossed legs to sit on his knees. He tips his hand aside like he was dancing with him. Dream blinks, then quietly moves closer. He tips his head onto George’s chest, then relaxes.

He feels George dust a finger under his scalp, runs a nimble finger through his hair. Massaging his scalp with quiet fondness, his other hand dipping to his shoulder blades. He lets his raw bitten nails drag softly across his skin, rubbing circles and dragging up and down his spine.

Dream hums warmly and wraps his arms around George’s waist and buries his face into the soft fabric of his tunic.

George tilts his head backwards and watches the ceiling. Feel Dream’s warmth pressed against his body and coax love through his skin. His hand dragging up and down his spine moves to rub his shoulder, quietly thumbing at the muscles.

He tips his head back and buries his face in his hair, presses his lips quietly against the top of his head and steals a loving kiss. He rubs his thumb against his shoulder, buries his cheek. 

Dream exhales breathily, it sounds like he’s about to cry.

“Are you crying?” George whispers.

Dream sniffles. “No,”

George lets a giggle dust the air. “It’s ok, you know.”

“To have feelings for other men,” Dream finishes. 

George frowns, briefly recalling his thoughts. His words.

Dream tilts his head up when George removes his chin, looks him in the eyes. 

Dream feels his eyes strung to George’s face, wandering the span of it and never wanting to peel his eyes away. 

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, mumbles quietly to George. George doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t do anything the morning part of Dream’s brain feared. Instead, he smiles leisurely and leans in, hand moving to cup Dream’s jaw. Dream’s the one who nearly closes the space between them, eyes fluttering closed, hands moving away from his head and one hand moving to rest against George’s hip.

They lie there for a moment, breath fanning either face, anticipation twisting in their gut softly and beautifully, distance closing and finally gone. 

Dream presses his lips softly against George’s, nose tilting to gently press into his cheeks, enjoying the sweet, soft, home feeling tingling in between them. The sense of soft lips, slow and smooth, uncertain at first. Then the velvety taste of chamomile and the wet tea stuck to his lips, moving against each other, never wanting to pull away. Delicious and tender, completely indulgent secrets that remained their own muted stories for them alone. 

Dream smiles against George’s lips, a gooey smile, feeling light and cloudy and nebulous. Like he could fly, light. He felt pastel, vivid--alive, doughy warmness turning his insides into sludge. 

Dream pulls away first, in need of air, a heavy inhale and exhale, followed by a breathy laugh. George chimes in, understated secrets mellow and littered in the air. 

George’s mind felt mushy, slushy, held delicately here in the starlight. Brainless, silly boys, giggling in the compassionate and unspoken silence between them. Dream scoots closer, gently moving onto his back to pull the covers from underneath them and drape them over each other. 

He leans in and wraps his arms around George’s middle, letting his head drop onto his shoulder comfortably. George smiles, tangling their legs and similarly throwing an arm around Dream’s side, one hand resting by his face. 

Dream Smile falls, in replacement for a delicate quirk of his lips.

“Can we- can we talk?”

George hums. “About what?”

Dream only reaches and dusts a finger over George's collarbone, gently reminding him of the hickeys colouring his neck.

George shudders delicately.

“What’s- what’s there to talk about?”

Dream frowns and shifts his position again, unwrapping himself from George to look him in the eyes. 

“How they- they transferred over from daydream you to real you,” 

George thins his lips. “Does it look like I know?” His voice lessens.

Dream scrunches his brow slightly. “No- but that means when I dream about you-”

George shakes his head. “What are you talking about? You  _ are  _ a daydream.”

Dream scrunches his brow. “No.”

The air in his lungs seems to be a foreign construct. There’s too many yet not enough thoughts running through his brain. “Stop playing with me,” 

“I’m- I’m not, I’m real I’m-”

“No, nononono,” George sits up and away from him. “You’re just- just my imagination.”

Dream sits up too. “You did it too. Shifted into my daydream. Why is this so hard to understand?”

George shakes his head and looks away from Dream. “Stop.”

“What?”

“Giving me hope.”

_ “I am real.”  _

_ “Don’t say that,” he whispers falsely. “Don’t give me that feeling.” _

_ “...Hope?” _

_ Dream purses his lips. “Yeah. that.” _

Dream thins his lips. “Do you remember?”

George’s stupid, he’s so stupid for thinking he could frolic around with another  _ man  _ and not have any consequences. Some god or whatever was up there, smiting him. George runs a hand through his battered hair and swipes the tea off his lips.

“George,” Dream tentatively reaches out and rests his hand on George’s shoulder.

George pushes him away. He’s too real, he can’t handle this. Why did he think it would be a good idea? Fool around with another boy? Kiss him? Let him whisper sweet nothings into your ears? Did he think he’d get no backlash for this? This was his punishment. Falling for a man.

“Stop,” He whispers.

“George, please,” Dream whispers, reaching out for any sign of anything. “Just one second, look at me,” He reaches his fingers to cup his jaw, turn his head delicately towards him.

“I love you.”

He can’t do this. The reality of the situation burdens his shoulders yet lifts him off the bed quicker than ever. He sees the way his eyes frown when George’s breathing picks up in a panic. He always spoke with his eyes.

“I-I can’t do this,”

He grabs his satchel, closes it hurriedly. He tempts fate by stealing a glance behind him. 

Dream’s eyes are glassy, no longer emerald, but dull.

“Wait, please, Geo rge-” 

“Shut up,” His voice tremors, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“George-”

“No, no I can’t- not with another man,” He trips over his words, avoiding eye contact at all costs. “It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.”

Dream’s face drops.

"This is your fault, I-I," He fumbles. "Leave. Just- Just go."

Dream blinks.  "From the castle?"

Words are hard, so he just nods timidly.

"Just go. I don't want to see you."

Dream swallows his guilt and exits the room.

George doesn’t follow. Waits a few minutes for the footsteps to stop, then leaves too.

\--

Rain batters outside and the wind is harsh. People are huddled inside, with the occasional stragglers rushing through the rain. Hoping to not get caught in the crossfire.

George swears under his breath when he shivers, wrapping the scarf around his neck tighter and scattering from the castle. 

He was foolish, thinking he could fool around with his daydreams. Fool around with Dream. Soft kisses shared moments. Delicate lips, soft green eyes.

He should’ve been with a woman. Not a man.

What would his mother say?

He ignores the tears striping down his face, they blend with the rain. His feet click as he hits the ground, running through the dent in the castle walls as he flies into town. Figuratively.

The town reaches higher than it used to, covering him from bad decisions and poorly made promises. George’s heart screams in his chest, shrill pleads to go back.

He keeps going forwards. Heart of the city, where the markets are bustling despite the weather and people are dancing in puddles. Splashing along.

Nobody notices him trodding along, with his scarf wrapped tightly around his neck and his satchel swung over his shoulder he looks ordinary. He fits in.

He breathes a moment and stops, watches the world turn. His heartbeat rings through his chest slowly, a lub-dub so painfully slow. He feels the way the blood pumps from his heart tightly, and how it warms his chilled body. His fingertips are red, lack of heat turning his body into a shivering pool of insecurities.

Days are dreary, cloudy skies littering through troubled times. Time that runs faster than the morning bustle of the market and the only thing that slows them down is pained smiles and crinkled eyes.

He tucks his chin further to his chest, dried tears sticking to his face in painful reminder. 

A nap sounds delightful, George grumbles through his raw throat, pressing images of a delicate laugh and pretty little smiles that gnaw at his chest so utterly painfully. They tell you to love is beautiful, but they don’t tell you how you can sit for hours on end, watching them laugh and feel the hole digging at your heart. Physically feel the torment bubble in your chest like a soda about to explode.

It’s never sharp or dull, the feeling is tight as your body pushes away from the knife that digs into your flesh. He wants to cry and claw and rip at everything that pulls him into a dull sense of safety as a child does. He wants to revert back to his instincts which told him to back away from the start.

His mind feels dull, empty tears that hollow down his cheeks. A shell.

A pretty girl walks by, she sees his broken demeanour and offers him a drink.

He accepts, walks into the bar.

It’s loud, it’s loud and annoying and he has a headache.

She offers him a drink and they speak for all of 5 minutes before she’s kissing him. The strobe lights give him a headache and he wants to kiss back, but tears are threatening his composure.

He kisses back tentatively, all but wishing it was Dream. Just sitting in the cold depths of an unknown bar, pretending that the lips on his were Dream’s, pretending the hands around his neck were Dreams. Pretending  _ she  _ was Dream.

Pathetic, taking out his insecurities on another person.

He removes his lips from hers, gives her a broken smile and retreats back into the rain.

The pit is where his feet draw him to. Despite the pounding thunder and the threatening lightning, he sits down by the bleachers. Where he usually sat.

His mind draws the sick form of Dream in the corner of his vision. He feels him wrap his arms around him.

He feels tears boil at his eyes, threatening to rip everything.

He lets go of his knees, collapses into the feeling of what will never be real, hugs him back so tightly. His nails bitten to the bottom dig at the fabric of the boy's shirt, letting his head rest onto his shoulder with the driving want to see him in real life. Say sorry a million times over and over and that he’ll get over it he swears, he’ll be good, he’ll learn, he’ll stay. 

“He’s packing his bags,” Dream whispers painfully. 

The air’s withering, cold, shrivelled up and dark. It pricks him like ice through the thin layers of his tunic, jabbing him almost painfully.

“Don’t leave,” George pleads into the fabric of Dream’s ghost’s shirt, feeling his body go limp into the fake man’s arms, broken sobs littering the air.

“please don’t leave” George begs, “please don’t leave. please don’t leave, Dream please don’t leave this isn’t funny.”

He shudders through an onslaught of tears, pressing as close as he can to Dream, who lies silent while he pets his hair. He feels stiff, not real at all. George whimpers, begging him to be real, or for himself to be normal. For once, to stop being abnormal. Struggling pleads wrecking the air, “i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you please please you can’t go, i’m right here. i love you, dream please please.” 

Quivered sobs and quick breaths forced themselves through George’s airways, making it hard to breathe. “Dream please, please don’t go. Please, Sapnap needs you, I need you. I love you so much, Dream please don’t leave. please don’t leave, please don’t leave.” 

A torn whimper, tighter grip and throat rubbed raw and sore.

“i love you.”

Dream fades in his arms and leaves George collapsing in on himself, screaming in pain as he digs his hands into himself once again.

“I- I’m sorry,” he stutters to himself. The kind of stutter that was wholeheartedly his heart lying in a bloody mess on the seats in front of him. He sees the blood pool and drip around the creases of the wood, dripping into cracks and sliding down the seats. It’s hardly beating, gasping for air. 

A sick tone rings in his ears pitifully, his grip on his scarf is tight, yet shivering. His fingers numbly swipe across the fabric, and he can feel the broken emotions left in him.

Only the sound of the rain echoes now, the whirring of breezes and the sparse birds that are still awake this deep into the city. 

George brings his knees to his chest, hugging them as if they were his only friend and burying his face deep in his scarf.

They likely were, right now. His only friend.

Real-life is anything but graceful. It’s a pitfall of emotions that leave you drained and simplistic in style. They give shape to a day full of nothing. 

He keeps his head buried in his knees, refusing to look up for the sake of the world. 

Sapnap sits down at some point, beside him. He tries to say something.

George doesn’t hear him, only buries his face in his arms when he wraps them around the boys middle.

His eyes are wrecked, red and puffy and there are scratch marks over his clothing and running through his scalp.

Sapnap's been trying to say something for minutes now, a gentle tone that reeks of desperation to know that George didn’t do anything rash to himself.

He runs a hand through his hair and shushes him, and George’s too weak to even hug back. Letting himself rest limply in his arms.

George, staring through empty tears, says nothing in return. He knows his voice would break if he dared try to say anything. It’s best to keep quiet.

It only makes the situation worse, letting time flow past him.

\--

_ “...Dream?” _

_ George hates his own voice. He hates his voice so fucking much and he hates Dream's lips and he wants to kiss them with tears running down his face and look him in the eyes and bury him in a hug that reeks of wanting more than friendship. _

_ Dream says nothing, unhelpfully. _

_ “Can we- we talk about it? I- I was harsh.” _

_ He doesn’t want to talk about it. _

_ “No.” _ _ He whimpers with all the strength of a toddler. His voice cracks and dips lowly into territory he hoped he’d never cross. _

_ George doesn’t say anything. Dream’s ears burn with the scars of hearing his voice. It’s more than a grudge, it’s hate. A denial against himself. _

_ “Please.” _

_ Hearts die slowly. Each word a shuddering death to any hope he has. _

_ He’s only making it worse. _

_ “We’re not talking, George. There's nothing to talk about.” _

_ George’s voice is turning desperate, you can hear the need in his voice. “Dream, please I-”  _

_ His heart will break more than a crack if he hears anything else.  _ _ “I’m leaving.” _

_ “Dream please,” He can hear the tears past his tone, “I love you.” _

_ Dream falters, a string of hope catching on the line that drags his heart into the deepest ocean. _

_ It doesn’t sound genuine. Not at all. He knows it; he can hear it. _

_ “I hope you never have to think of me as much as I think of you,” _ _ Dream whispers, a reciting of a poem he read millions of years ago. _

George wakes up in a cold sweat, reeking of tears and broken shards of promises he never kept.

\--

Sapnap helped him back to the castle eventually. Through the dying rains and the withered flora around the area. He woke up to a note from Dream, just sitting by his bedside.

_ I hope you never have to think of me as much as I think of you. _

_ -Dream. _

You can hear the hesitance in his words. A finality of his departure. George doesn't know where he's gone.

He's too afraid to ask.

He looks at the poor drawings he scribbled at some point, of his family. The rest in the drawer by the note.

The ball’s coming up. A few weeks. George doesn’t think he's ready for it.

George’s spent literal years mulling this subject over, and what does it matter in the end, anyway? It’s just a ball, and who knows how far people split later in life when their careers divert them from their friends and families. 

There’s not enough room in his life to dwell on dreams, not enough room to be a child anymore. That time vanished a million years ago.

George sighs and cards a hand through his hair again, his fingers running stuck into some tangled curls and messy heaps of hair that sit atop his head, uncombed. He doesn't bother brushing it, He knows a lost cause when he sees one.

The poor drawing lies discarded at his feet. 

He doesn’t touch it.

\--

It’s too quiet without Dream in the castle, no boisterous energy. No loving smile or pretty eyes.

Not even his daydreams come. Sometimes, he thinks it's better. Sometimes, it pierced his heart and left it on the ground in a bloody mess.

He retreats to his room, nearly broken from his thoughts.

_ “Let’s make it a masquerade ball! It’s your first birthday as King, anyways.” Bad suggests. _

He stripes water over his face, breathing a heavy exhale as cold water alights his nerves. His face is red, eyes sore from the weight of everything. It drains him of his thoughts, struggling as they’re stuck in the drain.

He lets the water drip past his fingertips as he looks past the mirror, staring at the unknown presence. The weight dragging him down, keeping his thoughts closed behind a locked fence.

He's still dealing with the wreck of emotions his heart's in. Shudders past cold temptation to dip his head below freezing water.

“I know you’re there.” He whispers. “I know you can hear me.”

Sweat pools on his brow.  


“I know you can  _ see me.” _

Dream jolts up in his bed, startled and awoken.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha....... hey gang.......... whats up ...........................................
> 
> LAHSFHs im sorry that's all i'll say  
> once again part 97 of me refusing to beta my work because im too afraid to re read it.  
> ALSO TYSM for 15k WOW !! thank you for all the nice comments, the art and the funny bookmarks (twinks in crowns person im looking at you) it's truly been an honor to share my writing and have such supportive readers. thank you lot! 
> 
> as always my twt is @raytick4, come talk to me there!
> 
> anyways as always see you next time  
> and dont harass creators, ple-


	9. [Poets Wishes]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream goes home.

_\--_

_“It’s alright,” He rasps, “You can just say you hate me.”_

_Dream’s feet drag against the pebbles in the gravel, scratching against the leather, “George that’s not what I-”_

_“Go,” He murmurs. His back is turned, refusing to even think about locking eye contact for a split second with him. “Get out of my kingdom.”_

_“George-”_

_“I said leave.”_

_Dream stands there for a moment, eyes scraping over his dulled gaze, glistening with hints of tears yet nothing at all._

_Swivelling on his heel, he turns to leave, expecting an outcry to come back-- that he’s changed his mind. Like a fairy tale._

_No sounds reverbs through the air except his own guilt, letting-- no, shoving Dream out of the gates, alone._

\--

~~_Dear George,_ ~~

~~_Dearest George,_ ~~

~~_To George:_ ~~

_My George._

\--

Dream swipes a hand over the reddened skin of his wrist, lightly cursing his inexperience with tending to the farm. His hand grabs at the stalkings, pulls them from the ground and trod tentatively back over towards his younger sister. She has a glazed smile on her face, seeing her older brother back home.

“Welcome home, Dream,” She murmurs for the final time that day.

Dream frowns, thoughts of George brimming dangerously close to the forefront of his mind.

“Glad to be back.”

\--

His retreat back into his home life is careful, comfortable. Leaves no room for thinking about other men and their soft embrace.

Dream frowns, curses the mental image of George that wraps his hands around his waist and tries to eat dinner.

His father is quiet, his two younger siblings and his older sister eat still. The breeze is gentle and warm. He can smell the years of memories he’s missed, the warm laughter shared across the table, the hot homemade soup made from leftovers of the better harvests.

It’s silent, with him here now. He dips a spoon into the warming chicken broth and tassels it around. He misses sharing bread with George, quietly wishes it was just him with George again, sitting on the bed. Sharing laughs, mattress dipping under his weight.

His younger sister is the first to pick up on his glazed eyes, fond yet cold with memories.

“Clay,” She starts, tentatively reaching her hand out to touch his stilled one. “We’re glad you’re back but, why are you back?”

Dream presses the spoon to his lower lip and represses the tidal flood of memories that rip him apart.

“Some invaders burned and killed many of our men,” he half lies through his teeth, “I-” He doesn’t know where to go with this. “I got sent home, until the ball. To rest, then come back to protect G-” He pauses, “The king.”

His sister swipes a thumb over the back of his hand.

“Clay,” his father starts softly. 

“It’s Dream,” He responds with a little more intent. 

His father drops his eyes, remembering the knightly nickname. “Dream, if anything’s been going on,”

He looks at him with soft eyes, a worried smile. The look of a man getting old, merely worried for his son.

He breathes. The last thing he’d want to do right now is detail his affair with the king. The king. 

“I’m just tired.”

Nobody at the table believes him, he can see it in their eyes, but they fall back into a dreary silence. Dream can’t find it in himself to complain, past the lulling breeze and the cosy atmosphere it was still home.

For once, he felt like the little boy he failed to be. Cry into his mother's arms and hug her tightly. Let her soothe him to sleep with a bedtime story and promise that it’d all get better.

He was grown, and the real world pricked him in the gut more than ever.

George’s laugh echoes through his veins.

\--

_Now the mirth is sempiternal and triumph hardly, needlessly nurturing, hands barely seek an empty cloud and stumble mindlessly._

_We surprise but only for a while, after hearts of feeling and moons of dawn._

_Through these eyes I find, 70 hearts grow never._

\--

Dream etches ink onto blank paper, the parchment worn and shrivelled. Its fibres are weary with age, wrung together with meagre glue. It’s yellowed, more than when he first strung it together many years ago. 

He drags his hand across the leather pages and begins with a sigh, tearing a page out of the book.

His quill dips into the ink, dropping down onto the page for a moment, as the scratch of metal and finely coated calligraphy escape his fingers.

It’s been so long since he’s written.

But he stares, for a moment, hovering above the words “Dear George,”

He crosses it out.

“Dearest George,” He murmurs through timid feelings. Scratch, drag it out.

“To George,” He rests on. His eyes scan it, see the simple way words carved themselves into the paper. 

He scratches it out, and writes “My George.” His heart beats lingeringly, with the force of an injured puppy. It shudders, beats blood into his fingertips and pulses past the tears in his eyes. 

He’s not his, he’s anything but his.

 _If you knew,_ he briefly thinks, _how much I loved you, would you continue to push me aside?_

 _Please_ , he hardly thinks, _Calm the aching storm of my beating heart._

He reads the words he’s just thought, lying out on the page. A knuckle raps on the door, disturbs the gentle silence Dream created. He doesn’t say anything, but sets his quill down and stares at the page with feeble angst.

His older sister walks in, glances at the back of his head and walks to his side.

Dream doesn’t bother, covering his writing. His heart is sore, lied out in a plodding pile of blood on the table.

Caroline sighs, reading the words and running a careful hand to his shoulders. As much as they used to tease, the time wears away the reminder of childhood memories. Leaves only shuddered dust in it’s remains.

“Do I know him?”

Dream shakes his head with pain splintered into his eyes. “No.” He croaks.

Caroline’s eyes drag across the paper, and she hums a careful melody. “George?”

His name feels bitter on her tongue, a pact of allegiance between two adults left in the wake of dire situations. 

“Mm,” He humbles brokenly, pushes past the tears cornering in his eyes and slipping them aside.

Men don’t cry, he reminds himself with the stretched strength he had. Watered down, slipped down past an ocean of tears. Refugee.

“Is that what actually happened?” She whispers. “The king banished you home?”

There’s no teasing tone in her voice, there’s no petulant foolishness mixed between her words. 

He never said he was referring to the king, but who was he to doubt Caroline? A step in front of him, wiser than he’d ever be. 

“Yeah,” He replies, timidly. “Don’t tell them.”

She shakes her headly solemnly. “I won’t.”

The quiet dust of moonlight drags them both into the ground, muted secrets and quiet trenches dug into the pits of their hearts.

“It’s good to have you home.”

\--

_Pendulum of patience, I wish these flowers never sow. Under texts of transformation, my red heart needlessly weds a grudge. Crude in nature it never hates the hearts, not the clouds, with need._

_I eagerly await a single word from you. To know you still think of me._

_Dream._

\--

Patches meows insistently at the door, dragging her claws into the doorframe, begging for release from the stuffy smoke of the house. Dream’s father quietly heats up some eggs he got from the barn out back and shoots a bright smile to his son as he clambers down the stairs.

Dream drags a hand down his face, rubs the sleep out of his eyes and grumbles.

“Morning, Dream.” He shoots.

Dream catches the response, replies back with the drenched morning feeling of waking up in his own, too-small bed. He woke up and nearly dragged his feet across to go check on George. Then he stopped in front of his door and hung his head.

He was home, not there. No matter how comfortable he’d gotten in the 4 months he’d suited himself into the castle, in the 4 months, it took for him to fall in love and get his heart shattered.

When did lust turn to love? When did the hope of his daydreams provide not but a want, but a need?

George shuffles quietly. “ Hi  ,” He whispers fondly, “  Clay .”

Dream’s footing stutters, and he creaks the floorboards with intent. 

What the hell are you fucking doing here? He thinks, then peers to his father, unsure if the daydreams could be seen by only Sapnap, or the rest of everyone too.

“I know he’s there,” His dad starts, gently, turning back to his dishes from the stove. He doesn’t even glance behind him, just notes on the stuttered footsteps and the sound of a different accent. “He’s been sitting there for ages. Waiting for you.”

“He’s not-”

“-Real,” His father finishes. “I know.”

Dream opens his mouth quietly, blinks at his father. His father turns around, watches Dream with furrowed brows, and not disappointment, but a tired look.

“Your mother and I had them, too.” He looks weary. “I was wondering if anyone else had them-- the daydreams.” His shoulders slack, and his eyes go sad. “I guess I should’ve known it would be you too.”

Dream bites the nail of his index finger. “Why can’t I see her?”

His father hangs his head. “When she died, so did the dreams.”

Dream’s eyes drop, and he watches George with a tentative motion, who sits and watches the conversation intently. 

“Who else has them?” Dream asks, quietly.

His father nods off in the direction of the upstairs. “Caroline. The poor girl left her years ago. Sometimes she holes herself up in there and talks to the envisionment of her.”

Dream frowns, recalls similar behaviour on his part. “I hope nobody else has them too.”

His father shakes his head, slowly. “It’s comforting, to be able to talk to them as they come and go, but you find,” he breathes, “Your life ties to the thought of them. And once they’re gone, they’re gone.”

His father seems to be trying to hold out, be strong for the son in front of him, but his mother is gone, and the memories of her flashes behind his eyelids.

His father turns to George timidly. “George, right?”

George nods and holds his hand out quietly. His father shakes it. 

Dream waits, passively hopes real George doesn’t switch in. Doesn’t show up. He knows desperately in his heart he’ll collapse if he hears his voice for a second longer, let his kiss linger on his lips, but he still selfishly wishes for it to be him. To be here, to meet his father as if these were normal circumstances as if they weren’t about to go to war.

“Yeah, George,”  He replies. “ I’m a friend, ” 

His father shakes his head. “You don’t need to lie. I know.”

Dream frowns, leans against the kitchen chair. 

Patches meows fiercely. Drags her claws into the door. His father lets a weary chuckle past his lips and points to the door. “Let her out, would you? I’m afraid she might claw that door down.”

Dream quietly paces past the rendition of George, and holds his hand on the handle, letting the young cat drag herself outside and into the cool fall breeze, to run through the grass in the pen and hiss at the stray creatures that linger outside the walls.

Dream turns to his father. Remembers the information he desperately held and was too selfish to drop.

“We’re going to war, soon.” He replies. “There’s a ball, First of November, The king’s going to declare war there.”

His father sighs sadly, then snorts at the end. “You are allowed to say ‘George,’ I’m not going to bite you for not liking women.”

Dream offers a timid smile, then feels tears boil at the brink of his eyes.

_Don’t cry, don’t fucking cry._

“Thanks, dad.”

He smiles. “Now go out there and farm the field, just because you’re back doesn’t mean you’re excused from chores, we can talk the logistics of war over dinner.”

Dream groans, but lets a light smile plaster his face.

\--

_My George._

_How hardly do you request patience? How distraught must you be to throw the need of time away? You sit gamely like a laureated water twixt. We sought the minute and the distance, why do you stumble so eagerly? Ever so quick to embrace a breeze yet paint the water._

_Your counterpart talked to my father, he really likes you, you know. Apparently, it runs in my family, to have daydreams. Maladaptive, as Sapnap calls it. The nerd._

_He said if you ever wanted to, you could come over for dinner. He said he’s okay with me. With us._

_You, as a daydream. My daydreams start to look and act more and more like you. Maybe it’s you, shifting in without my notice, or the magic that holds it together adapts in your absence._

\--

Dream drags his hand into the soil, firmly tugs at the roots of the carrot and pulls it out with a huff, tossing it into the half heavy bag standing tall by his side. The soil’s warm with water, the glorious sun beating down on them unlike October was supposed to. 

Fall’s heat, he curses at, then plants the soil back in replacement of the carrot.

“Your father seemed nice.”  George remarks politely, standing off to the side of the fence, where he leans into the painted wood. 

“Mmn,” He remarks, pulling another hefty carrot out of the ground. “He was always better than the rest.” He scoffs. “Wait till you meet Ada’s father, he’s ruthless.”

George quips his head. “Ada?”

Dream frowns. Ada was perfectly in his head, so why shouldn’t George know?

“Childhood friend, her father runs a bigger farm back to the south of here. As soon as I came of age he went all _marry my daughter PLS,_ ” He laughs. George giggles delicately, and Dream melts.

“Then-” He breaks past his growing wheeze, “as soon as her father finds out I’m back, he’s going to go feral, being the handsome sexy knight I am.”

George smacks him over the head with the paper in his hand and Dream collapses back into a fit of wheezes. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” He holds his hands up. “You’re the big strong sexy one how could I forget?”

George rolls his eyes and looks off to the side, the blood in his face dusting his pale cheeks a slight pink.

“You know,” he briefly wonders, mind sidetracking as it does, “If you stay out in the sun long enough, will you burn up or get a tan?”

George scoffs.  “I’m not a vampire, Clay,” 

He keeps saying that, his name. Like it tastes sweet on his tongue. Like he likes it. Like he loves him.

“Sometimes I doubt that,” He grins, toothily, only to be met with another handful of paper. 

\--

_When do fireflies become flowers? When does the light become ornamentation of our desires, rip apart the creeks of time?_

\--

Ink settles on the paper timidly, and Dream watches it dry with nimble passion. He grabs the letter, feels the worn pieces of fabric test past his fingers. The yellowed paper crinkles and sighs in his grasp. Dream pushes it aside, wraps it tightly with a ribbon and swears to never send it.

His father calls for dinner.

Dream watches the parchment for a moment, then stands up, moving to the door.

\--

_You never fight the fields, nor the breezes with time. Time gave daffodils, and we ripped them apart in the peculiar minutes between._

_Devotedly, minutes grow. I feel pain like 30 vultures of what I make within._

_Where did our betrayal go? When did we lose love?_

_How frightened of change are you?_

_Your Dream._

\--

The weeks passes by too mildly for Dream’s tastes, from polite conversations with his father to quiet ones with Caroline, to teasing ones with his siblings. To fond ones with George.

He seldom leaves his side, Dream wakes tangled in his arms, finds his head resting on his shoulder and his warmth curled up against Dream’s body. He’d sigh, then quietly touch back into the depths of sleep for five minutes, if only to pretend real George was the one pressed around him. Stealing secret kisses before and after meals, in the garden. Under sunlight, under dusk.

He disappears sometimes, during meals to avoid his whole family finding out (despite half of them already knowing.) or while he’s tending to the animals. Quiet conversation passes, Dream shows George around the farm like he’s always wanted to.

Shows him the animals, the horses. The pigs and the mice. His old friends and the woods behind his house. Even patches loves him.

He wishes so dreadfully it was real.

He could pretend all he wanted, but real George would never want to steal kisses from him.

He remembers his words sourly. 

_“No, no I can’t- not with another man, It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.”_

_"This is your fault, I-I- Leave. Just- Just go."_

_"From the castle?"_

_"Just go."_

One day, there’s a knock at the door.

They’re unused to visitors, so his siblings riot with excitement and the weary drag of his father’s face explains it all. 

Dream opens the door to Sapnap, who looks at him with soft interest.

“Sapnap,” He blinks, “What are you doing here?”

Sapnap scoffs. “You disappear for a week, no letters, nothing, and you expect me not to visit you?”

Dream winces. Right, he was still allowed to send Sapnap letters. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. His younger siblings drag past the stairs to see who it is.

“It’s alright man, I just wanted to make sure you were oka- Jesus what is that noise?”

Dream laughs breathily and looks behind him to his younger siblings. “My siblings.”

Sapnap frowns. “Ew.”

Dream wheezes. “Get your ass in here.”

\--

Sapnap sits at the table with patches meowing insistently in his lap, holding a cup of tea between his fingers. 

“How’ve you been?” Sapnap asks, deflecting from the reasons he was actually here. 

“Terrible, I wake up at the crack of dawn to Patches clawing my face off.” 

Sapnap snorts past his tea. “Sucks.”

“You’re awful. Where’s Jacobs anyways?”

Sapnap blows a bubble into his head timidly then sips it quietly. “Back home.”

“Moving in already?” He whistles. “Impressive.”

“I’m going to kick you so hard,” Sapnap grumbles, to which Dream responds with a deflated wheeze. 

He sighs past a breath and regains the air in his lungs. “Alright, alright.”

Sapnap’s smile drops as he swirls his spoon around his cup tentatively, looking around. He feels the words boil on the tip of his tongue. 

“Look,” he sighs, to the point, “I know what happened between you and George,”

Dream frowns. “Nothing h-”

“I dragged him back to the castle during a storm, my fucking ass nothing happened.”

Dream frowns. “Look- it’s nothing big.”

“Why are you banished?” 

Dream looks up at him. “What?”

“Why are you banished?” Sapnap breathes between each word. “George’s hardly left his room, and Bad has had a foot up my ass for a week now about getting him prepared for his stupid masquerade ball.”

The fake George behind him winces, then pops out of the conversation. That daft motherfucker. 

Dream breathes timidly through his nose. “We had a fight.”

“Wow.” Sapnap says sarcastically. 

“I-” He looks around the room, catches the eyes of his younger siblings, and feels the sickness in his stomach. “Let’s talk somewhere else than the most public part of the house.”

Sapnap nods and sets his tea down, patches jumping out of his lap as Dream leads them to the barn. He shoots a look at his siblings and quietly closes the door behind him, sighing in the smell of hay.

Sapnap, on the other hand, scrunches his nose. “Ew, it smells like shit in here.”

“These are animals, Sap, do you expect them to smell like tulips?”

Sapnap grumbles and continues around.

“What happened, Dream?” Sapnap asks, turning around in the middle of the barn to look him in the eyes. Dream’s eyebrows furrow, and he hooks his eyes away.

“I kissed him, alright?”

Sapnap blinks. “Okay? You did that multiple times before-”

“And told him I love him. He realised I could switch into the daydreams too, Sap. He watched me.”

Sapnap frowns. “Oh.”

“Yeah ‘Oh,’ He told me to get out of the kingdom. So I did.”

Dream’s heart drops, and his tone softens. “So I left.”

Sapnap reaches a tentative arm out, then cups his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Dream whispers past pained memories. “He doesn’t want me back, that’s fine.”

This is the part, Dream’s brain hopes, that Sapnap tells him that he’s been blabbering on and on about how he’s sorry and he wants him back. Sapnap frowns.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“What has he said,” Dream starts quietly, “About me?”

Sapnap’s breath hitches in his throat as he thins his lips.

“Nothing good.”

Dream bites his lower lip, pushing past his suddenly vivid imagination of George becoming this stone figure, the cold ruler he hoped he’d never turn out to be. Cussing out the people who dared love differently, maybe even imposing stricter laws. Or maybe he only hated Dream, only him specifically.

He aches and hopes it’s only him. 

He’s ruined everything. 

“Why are you here, then? I assume it’s not to drag me into the kingdom. He’ll have a guard kill me on sight, I’m sure.”

Sapnap frowns. “I wouldn’t say kill by, violently drag you out. Make sure you never really... get close.”

Dream’s heart drops.

“He doesn’t have it in him to kill, he’s not his father, Dream.”

“I know, Sapnap,” He whimpers. “I know.”

How did this happen? How did he fall so greatly into a pit doomed with fire?

“Here,” Sapnap comforts. “Show me around the farm, if it helps. I have time before anyone realises I’ve gone missing.”

Dream snorts and nods. “Yeah, sure. Here are the pigs, first off, you’ll blend right in with them.”

“Oh my god nevermind I’m going home.”

Dream wheezes.

\--

_My George,_

_Poems found the peasant within subtle death, wilfully calling for release. Why did the angel love, only to give the heart of desolation?_

_No soldier is blue, no peasant is painful. They never hurt the lips nor the bones with desire like you._

_I’ll be frank, George. Life in the countryside is dreary without you. Dancing in the fields with Ada isn’t the same. The dexterity of her feet twirls, and she is beautiful but she isn’t you. Hardly ever will be._

_Her father wants me to marry her. Like old times. Back when we were young and I pranced through tall stalks of grass._

_Where was the manic vertigo then?_

_Where were you?_

_We terrified the colossal creek, before the river dawn. A boat that humbled itself under the moon. She has a lover, from desperately far away. I do too._

_The daydreams of you still haunt me, still tease me until my lips are met with skin and I sit on the edge of my bed, cradling the hope of something that will never happen._

_I know you don’t love me, but I wish so dearly you did._

_I wish many things, my dear. You are one of them._

_If I could steal just a final kiss from you, would you let me? Before I was to disappear._

\--

Caroline chopped her hair off, with locks of once long towering hair sitting in a corner. Her hair dangles by her chin.

Dream thinks it suits her.

George quietly sits by the windowsill, watching the birds and the wildlife perusing outside, the creature’s he’s never seen before.

“It’s strange,” Caroline muses. “Having the king in my room. Watching the hummingbirds and the deers outside.”

George mumbles curses under his breath.  “I can name every flower in your garden, right now.” 

Caroline chuckles. “But can you point out a stag from a doe?”

George coughs. He doesn’t know what either of those are. 

Dream scoffs past a laugh. “Both of you are pathetic.”

“Shut up, Clay,” They both mock in near unison. Dream deflates from a wheeze. 

“What kind of a name is Clay? ” George mocks.

“Says the 2nd George in your lineage,”

Caroline coughs. “Ladies please, calm yourselves.”

Luna, ever the quiet one, shifts on Caroline’s bed. Dream’s eyes show weary locks of frustration, the glance at George every few seconds, drink in his beauty as he’s plastered by the window. The sunlight fanning around him.

“You’re sad,” Caroline chuckles. Dream scoffs. 

“Shut up,” He gently tangles his fingers. 

“She’s not wrong,”  Luna interjects, placing her head onto Caroline’s lap and watching Dream with an intense look in her eyes.

Dream quietly watches the way she looks back up at Caroline, with the happiest smile.

He wishes real George would give him that, would dare to show affection to him. His counterpart stares out the window.

If he’s to be banished, he’ll learn to love the magical part of him rather than him as a whole.

He just wishes for one last kiss. A real one. 

\--

_The sunlight is golden here, George. You’d love to see it. It’s timid and warm. Soak it in when you wake and drink it when you slumber._

_My heart still melts for you. I’m but a plodding pool of honey without your gentle embrace. You are amber-- gold._

_All kings envision golden, so exist the soldiers. No vulture is golden, no spear is yellow. 80 hearts ad desperate, graceful._

_I miss you desperately, George._

_Send word. Just a word. Just your name kissed gently on the bottom of this wretched paper._

\--

He wakes up one day, on October 31st, to George quietly sitting on the windowsill. His back is faced towards Dream, and he briefly misses the lull of warmth pressed against him.

“George?” He murmurs past the rasp in his morning voice. He presses his palm against his eye and drains the exhaustion out of him.

George tentatively peers behind him. There’s a sort of fragile desire held in his pupils, there’s a certain feel behind his fluttering eyelashes.

“Hi, Dream.”

Dream’s heart drops into his stomach. There’s the glint in his eyes, the sound in his voice, marks him as real. He sits in his room, watches him carefully. 

Real.

“What are- you doing here?” he shudders, past the broken feel of his heart. The shattered realities of him sitting comfortably here. How at some point he peeled from Dream’s embrace and watched the world until he woke up.

“I-” He breathes, suddenly aware that Dream knew the difference between fake him and real him. “You can tell?”

“Yes,” He wanders his eyes. He’s not wearing the tunic he was provided by his father last week, he’s wearing his own royal shirt. Unbuttoned at the top to allow his neck to breath.

His skin is clear.

Dream swallows. George moves off the windowsill.

Dream’s stuck frozen in the hollow shreds of his memories. For so long, he’d found comfort in the counterpart of George that’d love him back. That'd kiss him back, that’d leave him with warmth less than cool chills.

Now here was George, the real George. The whole of him. 

Dream backs away, just an inch. George slips onto the side of the bed, patiently hopes Dream will look him in the eyes.

How can he? He tilts his eyes away.

“Dream, please, look at me.”

He’s not ready- not ready to deal with the broken parts of his desires and the cold chills of what used to be.

He’s not ready.

“No, please, just go.”

George’s face drops. “Dream-”

“No,” He whispers, backs away to the other edge of the bed. The covers sprawl under him.

George drags himself to him, sits between his legs and looks Dream straight in the eyes, draws his eyes to him.

Dream hesitates, the weight of his thoughts hurt his desolate heart, as he tilts his head down to meet George’s gentle gaze. He’s quietly reminded of how perfect he looks, of how warm his eyes are and how soft his gaze is. How sweet his love was.

George leans his lips in, presses a kiss to his lips and digs his nose into his skin. Presses timidly against the warmth and let it boil his skin.

Tears fall past his eyes, drenching his cheeks in hollowed feelings and desperately wants that are never returned. He’s kissing, so softly, so desperately, waiting for Dream’s response.

Dream doesn’t kiss back, peels the tears off his eyes and let them run their course as George feebly continues to kiss him.

Continues hoping for something long dead.

George pulls away, the tears still pushing past his eyes. He hiccups, quietly, cups Dream’s face in his hands and tries to kiss again.

Hollow. He’s met with the hollow trace of nothing.

George’s inside brims with pain, pulls away and watches Dream’s careful eyes. Milked of all emotion, they’re so bland and boring. They’re so empty, so dull as tears roll down his freckled cheeks.

“Please Dream,” George hiccups. “Say something.”

Dream swallows and lets another round of quiet tears soak his skin.

“Go,” Is what he whispers. “Leave.”

George’s face breaks, and his hand shakes on his jaw. The tears come quicker now, and his panting is rigid as he swallows back the hiccups of pain. He trembles.

“Please-” he whimpers “Please come back I love you-”

What a sick game he played, holding him so softly and promising his love.

Something George’ll never return.

Dream swipes his hand away from his jaw and pushes back the hurt in his throat. 

“I said go.”

George is really shaking now, his hands fumbling for his clothes and desperate for a grip. He’s whimpering like a little puppy, kicked and broken and beaten.

“Please, please Dream please,” he begs, pulling closer to him and swallowing his face in his chest. “Please I love you pleasepleaseplease,” 

He’s trembling, the boy's face is trembling as he tries, a final time to pick his head up and kiss him again. Just a peck on hollow lips.

He pulls away, nose red and his eyes rubbed raw. 

“Please,” Dream whispers. “Please just go.”

He looks so hurt, so broken in his grasp, letting go of his shirt and pressing his head into his chest.

Dream pushes him off, points at the door.

George looks up at him, his nails digging into the mattress.

“Clay-” He whimpers. 

Dream halts, his stature straight like a statue.

“You’re going to wake up my family.” He whispers. “And their friends.” He briefly recalls his younger sister having a friend over.

_We aren't friends. Never have been._

George goes silent, slides off the bed and watches Dream shamefully, quietly walking towards the door. He holds the handle in his timid fingers and looks back to him, a final strand of tears pushing past his barriers.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, opens the door and closes it behind him as he exits. 

Dream shudders past a breath and sits back down, holding his head in his hands and looking down to his thighs, feeling his hands shake as they run through his hair.

He holds the weight of his love on his back, clasps his hand over his mouth and yell into his skin, feels the brink of emotions crack and shatter as he feels himself fall apart. He’s so cold, sitting in the chill breeze, and the tenure of his morals break, to which he’s left quietly, and alone.

A man that's never loved him back, pretending he did.

Cruel.

_“I hope you never have to think of me as much as I think of you,”_

Caroline steps into the room and walks quietly towards him and engulfs the man in a hug.

He rests his limp head on his shoulder and sobs, feels the weight of his nightmares become real.

_“No! Stay back,” George cries, standing away and huddling close to himself. “I don’t want to talk to a traitor.”_

_“George,” Dream tries, with the direct cause of his words burning a hole in his heart._

_He’s aware his skin is burning off, he’s aware the fires have gotten to him. He’s aware he’s trying to scream._

_“Please!” He cries, fit of pain seizing against the very thing he swears to never be._

_Traitor, someone screams._

_Traitor, another one cries as the flames swallow him whole._

“Traitor,” George whimpers.

He grips her shirt and cries for moments, as she rocks him slowly, rocks him past the nightmares. Rocks him past his unrequited love, past the pain.

“Shh,” She tries, threading a hand through his hair. “It’s okay, you’re safe, I’m here, I’m here,”

He wishes his mother was still here. Wishes George loved him.

He’s a man of many wishes, none of which ever come true. 

\--

~~_With love,_ ~~

_From,_

~~_Your_ ~~ _Dream._

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI im a day early but here you go anyways, im too impatient. happy new years everyone, and thank you for making 2020 less miserable. heres to a good 2021 :D
> 
> as always, thank you to all the comments, fanartists, anyone that interacts. my twt is @raytick4 , come chat with me there :)  
> don't harass creators  
> peace
> 
> edit:  
> everyone and their grandmother: hey king! i cant do this


	10. [Barren]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately for him, George deems Dream behind his mental thought process

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here’s a song for this chapter :) - Experience by Ludovico Einaudi, also just generally a good song (violin)

\--

 _I’m a coward,_ Dream writes. _A coward in feeling. I let you take bites out of me and make me shrivel up with delight under your gaze._

_I pushed you out, and now I’m too afraid to let you back. My heart screams a million, dear. Does yours even beat?_

_No soldier is yellow, no peasant is blue._

_Breathe steady across the course of the rain. I’m not sure I’m allowed to let the currents swipe me away just yet._

\--

The sunlight slopes through the open window, the curtain fanning against the breeze. Dream shuffles to the side and pulls the blanket to his neck to shelter from the cool fall chill, desperately clenching his eyes in an attempt to stay asleep.

It doesn’t work, he realises after a few minutes of futile blocking from the ever-present sun. He forces himself upwards, the mattress dipping under his weight and his eyes struggling to adjust to the early morning glow of light.

A knock’s heard at his door, Dream glances briefly to his side to check for someone not there.

“Come in,” He slurs, dragging the skin of his palm against his eyes. Sapnap pushes the door open tentatively, pressing against the fragile air that tenses and loosens with every breath.

Dream frowns. “Sap?”

“Hey,” He coos, almost petulantly. “I heard about what happened.”

Thanks, Caroline. 

“If you’ve come to give pity don’t bother.”

Sapnap shakes his head, ever the pleasant man when he tries to remain polite. Boundaries not yet crossed, between seas not yet disturbed by human politics. 

“I’m not.” 

Dream clicks his tongue, swallows a groan. He swipes his eyes from the boy and pushes himself up towards the rising feat of the day. 

“Then why are you here?”

Sapnap blinks. “The ball?”

Dream blinks a moment, memory hazy and clouded by the fog of yesterday and the brimming desire that screams to shut himself from the memories of feelings.

_You are golden, George._

“That’s today?”

Sapnap nods. “Mmhm,” He drags, sliding his feet against the smooth concrete. The cold stone pushes at his internal body heat, and you see it in the way his mouth curls downwards as he moves to the dresser. 

He slides his nimble fingers against the wood. “You didn’t think I’d let you sit and mope all day, did you?”

“No, but-” 

“Then we’re going out.”

Dream’s voice loosens, and his throat boils with a million unspoken words. Claw at the flesh, beg to be released.

Dumbly, he adds, “George will be there.”

Sapnap frowns. “So will the rest of the kingdom. Besides,” He drawls, flipping through his lacking clothing and similar tunics. “It's a masquerade.”

News to him. 

“So,” Dream pinches at the subject matter, moving towards Sapnap as he draws a steady finger through his shirts, huffs and closes the cabinet. “You’re going to dress me up, and go to the ball? Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” Sapnap breathes like it’s the most obvious part of the world spinning. His eyes show so much, so little though as the worry brims at the brown of his iris. Burns through his skin guiltily. 

Fire licks at the flame. “I meant why?” Eloquent.

Sapnap sighs, one that melts into a passive groan as he moves from Dream’s personal bubble of depression to around the rest of the room. He paces, his feet linger against the floor as they move. 

“You haven’t left the house in two weeks,”

Dream rebuttals. “I have,”

“For chores,” Sapnap swivels on the skin of his heel to face him, diagonal plastered across the room.

“I’m banished.” Dream sours.

Sapnap’s face goes bitter, the taste on his tongue not playful but tepid. 

“What’s life without a little rule breaking?”

Dream’s eyes shouldn’t be wide, his eyebrows shouldn’t be raised. This was _Sapnap_ they were talking about, if anything he should’ve expected it. Always reckless, also running off to do the things they all told him not to. 

“If we get caught you’ll be banished too.”

“They can’t.” Sapnap warms, drawing shapes with his hand movements. “I have Karl.”

“The flower shop kid?” Dream plays at the game they hold between them, moves to his desk to outline the trace of years in weathered wood. It was better than conversing. His mind latches onto the seams into the carvings, drags against the wood, half tuned into what Sapnap says. 

“He’s more than a flower shop kid,”

“To you,” Dream reminds. “To the rest of the kingdom you’re disgusting.”

_“George-” _

_“No, no I can’t- not with another man,” He trips over his words, avoiding eye contact at all costs. “It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.”_

_Dream’s face drops._

Sapnap’s face laxes, morphs painfully. “And to you?”

Dream watches his face with ambient curiosity, watches his eyebrows furrow and his face clench into a frown.

The weight of Dream’s painful gaze softens, bites back what he was always taught. 

“You’re my best friend.”

 _You’re just human,_ goes unsaid.

Sapnap remains painfully still, then sighs against the weight of their planet's core. The pull that drags them down to the ground.

“So, are we going or not?”

\--

Sapnap’s hand slide between the bricks of the Kingdom’s sturdy walls and pulls his weight up, his feet dangling for a moment before they latch into another weak spot in the bricks. Vaguely, Dream’s reminded how those two invaders must have gotten in in the first place.

Dream watches him for a moment, watches him scale the wall as he must’ve started growing accustomed to, and reached the top in no time.

It’s a high climb, and Sapnap has to squint when he looks down to Dream. His feet dangle over the edge.

“Come on,” He says, only loud enough for the breeze to bring the sound to Dream and not the unsuspecting guards, waiting to arrest him.

Dream swallows against his pride and slots his hand into the wall. 

_“I-I can’t climb!” George yells. “Can you go by yourself??”_

_“I have no influence over this man, you might.” Dream despises the idea but holds out his hands as he sits halfway up the wall._

He drags himself upwards, feels the cool of cobblestone around his calloused hand. The soles of his heels drag across the stone, heart rupturing in his ears. He drags another hand up, slides his foot into a slight gap, then moves again.

Sapnap watches carefully, as he drags himself up, then moves to sit on top of the wall.

Sapnap stares, lingers for a moment on the world beneath them, then turns his body to the city they overlooked.

The town tries towards the sky, and the castle touches it in the distance. The walls surrounding the inner town climb, and he briefly wonders where George was. What he was doing.

“We have two options,” Sapnap outlines, pointing to the ground. “We climb down, or we jump into that water.”

The water he’s referring to is a lake, held off by ground from the walls but a lake nonetheless. Dream lifts his palm, twirls his calloused fingers and aching muscles.

If he attempted to climb down, he’s sure he’d fall midway.

Was the lake any safer?

“Is jumping into a lake really that safe?”

Sapnap nods, hesitantly. “So far, yes.”

Dream stares at the rippling water. “Lake it is,” Dream decides, without further warning lifting himself off the wall.

Sapnap gapes for a moment, watches as he dives towards the water. As he disappears beyond his range of sight, he hears the loud splash that follows and the water in the lake disturbed so slightly.

Dream breaks the surface of the water, gasping for air as it’s cool embrace drags under his clothes. He sighs the air out of his lungs, moves his peddling hand to sub his eyes of the water that socks under his eyelids. Dream sneezes, drags his wrist under his nose, then moves as best he can to shore.

As he drags himself out the water, he sits on the side and winces, the surface impact of the water still causing ripples of pain to tremor throughout his skin as he hunches and coughs up a lung.

He drags his semi-dried hand past his face and past his hair, wiping the drops out of it.

Sapnap follows afterwards, diving more skillfully into the water, yet breaking the surface all the same. Out of breath, doused, and in slight pain.

“Ow.” Sapnap grumbles, then drags himself out of the lake too, to sit on the diagonal of Dream.

“Give me a second,” Dream huffs. “I need air.”

“Me too, asshole,” Sapnap remarks, standing up and wiping the water off his face and past his bangs. He drags his fingers through his long hair then unties it from its ribbon, letting it flow past his shoulders. “We don’t have long though.”

This ball was going to be the death of him.

He looks around, inside the gates for the first time in weeks and sighs, pushes himself upwards. “Alright.”

\--

_The condition of happiness wanes over time, however. Decreases through the pages and dejects the heart and soul. Diminish like the moon, among the stars._

_You are gone soon enough, and the petulant cries of children are contrite. Constrict, lover dearest, for there’s no time anymore. Not in this weary hobbit hole, a million years away from our Hiraeth._

Dream’s eyes check past the reflection in the mirror, bouncing rays of sunlight back to his humble features. The deep green of his outfit that contradicts his pale reflection that sun bounces off of.

He’d almost make a joke that he was a vampire. 

He checks the black leather pants against his thighs and the elegant victorian-Esque jacket against him. Instead of the traditional red and black, it’s green, dyed velvet and the collar of the jacket rests is black.

The idea of it seems rather stupid, and the loose white shirt underneath it, past the black jacket underneath which was only half clasped. He slips the cravat from his neck and inhales a large breath of air, exhaling quietly. 

The mask Sapnap hands him is dark olive, it shapes up like antler horns and has leaves across. It covers most of his face, dripping down under the eyes like metal teardrops. Olive leaves scatter it, resembling it’s forestry-earth like feel.

He ties it back around his head gently with a ribbon, then examines himself in the mirror.

He doesn’t look terrible, he gently prods, but he’s so unused to the use of formal wear.

“Please tell me that you can afford this.”

Sapnap grins, a wide smile splitting his face. “It’s free.”

Dream furrows his brows. “Free?” He replies, turning to him while slipping off the mask. He volunteers the mask into Sapnap’s hands as he slips the coat and the undershirt off, feeling it’s stuffiness drown him.

“I know the shop owner. Said she had something she could give you.”

Well, at least it fits.

“Tell her I say thanks.”

Sapnap nods, but doesn’t move. Looks down at his feet as he taps them quietly to rid the noise of his own thoughts.

“I can hear you thinking.” Dream murmurs, slipping off the shirt from his sticky skin and putting on a new tunic he borrowed. White, loose, it had collars and was clean. He pushes the fabric up to his elbows. 

“Do you?” Sapnap sighs, putting Dream’s mask aside and holding the weight of his own. “Is that true?”

Dream hums, shakes his feet back into his boots. 

“Just.. thinking.”

Dream scoffs, pushes the dirt past his pants. “Really? I never would’ve guessed.”

“I meant about what you said earlier.”

Dream’s face dips into a frown. “What part of it?”

 _“To the rest of the kingdom you’re disgusting.”_ He emphasises. 

Dream turns his head away, drags a nimble hand and his raw bitten fingernails across his back with nervousness. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Did he tell you that?” Sapnap offers. 

“George?” Dream fills.

Sapnap nods.

His pain mists out of his mouth. “Yes.”

Sapnap tucks the mask away, runs his thumbs across the back of his own palms. “You know it’s not true.”

“I know.”

“He’s not like his father.”

Dream’s eyebrows tilt downwards. “I know.”

“No,” Sapnap supplies. “No you don’t.”

They sit in silence.

\--

The day drags its feet, leniently, with no rush. Sapnap drags him to the pit, to just oversee a few fights. His mask is still home, fewer people recognise his face than his mask.

So he sits, cracks eager jokes with Sapnap until the moon dips and the arena goes quiet.

When the last of the sunset pink has faded, people start clamouring the streets. Shifting in his seat, Sapnap stands beside the pressed Dream.

“Come on, it’s starting.” He directs his face towards his permanent room in a nearby inn. Once Dream moved to George’s wing, Sapnap was left in the dirt.

He remarks how little he’s caught up in his best friends life and follows, the city streets bustling with late activity. From rich to poor, they mingle. 

They change in silence, then exit to a street still filled with mingling commoners.

He frowns, feels out of place here as he drags his mask up.

Sapnap leads, Dream follows at a nervous pace, not a word exchanged as they fit easily through the gates. Blended among the crowd. Nobody sees him.

Dream’s shoulders go lax as he steps over the bridge, past the river and walks into the area of the castle.

It was outside, the motherfucker made it outside. 

He sighs against the timid wind, crosses the weathered wood and catches up to Sapnap. Leaves bristle the air, there are stands and tables all around. Food, and a corner for the musicians. Sheltered from the breeze, so the cold doesn’t change the tone of the cellos and make the violin’s strings loose.

There’s no sign of the king. Dream pushes past a nervous breath and makes his way to Sapnap.

His gaze follows the crowd, as people disperse and move around to the right side of the castle, towards the open field to dance better.

He glances to the left, then averts his gaze.

He was here to have fun. Not worry about George.

\--

The hanging gardens still, the trees sway peacefully in the light breeze, but nothing more than a twig bristles past the air. Everything hangs in silence.

The grass ruffles, and the distant chatter of people dry Dream’s ears. The music is loud, the air is louder.

The silence, most of all, screams.

Dream pushes past the trees, finds the fountain with ease.

The water spurts and slacks, dripping past the marble into the lower pool as it does. The bench in front of it is still flaked with remnants of droplets. 

George stands, staring at the fountain quietly. His hands' lace behind his back, his posture rigid and formal, unused to the mannerisms of it all.

Full force, he’d retreated back.

Dream coats through the trees and stands on the dirt circle surrounding the fountain.

George’s face turns, briefly, catches the smallest glimpse of Dream. He says nothing, adjusts his mask on his face then turns back forwards.

“Your highness.” Dream whispers.

George’s heart yearns. _My Dream._

Silence hangs, much like the garden, in the air. The music tempts fate, presses against the atmosphere of tension, boiling amid personal bubbles.

His daydreams press against his consciousness. “Why are you not at the ball?”

George’s throat clicks as he swallows a quiet sigh. “I could ask you the same.”

But he doesn’t.

Dream’s eyes linger on the stars. “Happy Birthday.”

George drowns in his voice, turns slightly to face his wandering gaze.

“Thank you.”

George faces his body with his. Beneath the shadows, Dream can only barely tell he’s wearing a blue fitted outfit, accentuated to fit him carefully and fit the royal aesthetic he demands.

He slides his tongue across his bottom lip, then he shows his hand.

“A dance?” George asks.

Dream slots his hand into his, moves his feet closer without another word. Their body heat teems at the edge of the precipice they stand beside.

The music softens.

George twirls his hand into Dream’s, slots it quietly between the waters of timid trepidation. Dream voluntarily grips it, laces their fingers together with gentle grace. His other hand rests quietly on his waist, George’s hand not slung across Dream’s shoulder but wrapped to the back of his neck. His cold fingers brush against the burning flesh, thumbing at the place where his golden hair meets his neck.

He’s cut his hair, George recognises. He can’t run his fingers through it anymore, not without moving towards the top. He can only thumb at the bristling roots of hair, drag a longing thumb across his neck. 

Maybe, he misses his longer hair. 

_He knows it's you,_ Dream’s brain rages. _Why does he keep dancing?_

George’s face is stoic behind the mask, quiet. It’s held off, and you can’t see his face from behind the shiny blue cover, but his lips remind him so delicately of softer moments. 

Dream shudders against the touch, vague memories of slicing metal against his fragile strands, swipe it up swiftly and watch the hair flutter to the ground. The memories of George’s burning fingertips tracing against his scalp loosens and stops, and he stares at the locks lying on the ground.

Dream shifts around George’s wanting touch, dips his hand into George’s palm. Feels the thin layer of nervousness coat where George’s fingers touch him.

He can’t see the deep blue or the warm brown of George’s iris’ behind his mask. Beautiful diamonds, arranges of blue and a Lilly tucked into his short hair.

He’s blue and cold and so unexplored. The warm brown of his iris is shattered by the fabric and the fancy wear and the reflective blue diamonds. Coat his face, twirl up in a traditional mask shape.

He’s looking straight at him, his mouth slightly parted for bated breaths. 

Dream’s thankful his eyes are shielded, entirely focused on the pink of his lips and the corners of his mouth. He remembers how soft and how longing he felt kissing him. He remembers the desperate pulse in his pace, his heart squeezing in a way unknown to him. It wrapped, squeezed the life out of him and drew blood from his aching heart.

“You know who I am,” Dream whispers, quietly. Drawing George around his feet and dancing along to the medley of the sad classical music. The minor hums of violin strings and quiet plucks of cellos. Bows that stroke longingly against strings and dips into minor keys that drench the heart in feelings of sour sorrow.

“And you know me.” George echoes. He dips slightly, turns back to Dream’s eager, hungry face. Unable to locate the green of his iris behind his softer green mask. Something that didn’t stand out, not scream as he did.

It was entirely unlike the two of them. 

Dream twirls George around his hand, dips him and locks eyes with a starstruck George for a brief moment.

“Then why?”

George lifts himself to Dream’s face, brushing the thumb that was against his neck across his cheek. Watches the way you can feel his pupils dilate, blown and beautiful and teasing lips. George leans into his touch, watches his face. He’s fighting the fear of a million words, a million fears stacked upon layers of anxiety, to which Dream pulls away before he can build the confidence to kiss him again.

His heart sours, drops, squeezes in his chest as he remembers the broken tears he shared. Kissing him hollowly, feeling the lips but never feeling the warmth. The bitter taste in his stomach.

Dream settles them both back up, slots their bodies too close for two men. Two men dancing together, the tension playing a tune between them.

“Clay,” George teases, softly. “Talk to me.”

His heart sours. He should not know that name. He shouldn’t know _his name._

It’s not worthy to be uttered on his tongue. He is not worthy.

“The time for talking has passed,” He whispers, twirls him again, then brings their faces close. Their breaths mix and fan the others. The sweet taste of lemon and the overarching scent of olives. 

George sighs, briefly. Unwoven fears, the dark ground beneath them in the pale moonlight. The garden quietly peers around the side of the castle, and the birds sing quietly as night drenched the city. "You killed me.” He whispers, fanning against the chilled air with his warm breath.

Blood squeezes out of Dream’s lungs, boiling it and rushing to his fingertips. He remembers how soft and how longing he felt kissing him. He remembers the desperate pulse in his pace, his heart squeezing in a way unknown to him. It wrapped, squeezed the life out of him and drew blood from his aching heart.

"How did I kill you?" Dream whispers back against his lips, honey-sweet. 

"You kissed me.” George fans, drinking the cool air against his warmed blood. “And I realised all I wanted was to be kissed again.

Dream breathes heavily. “Don’t say that to me.”

“Why?” George tests. 

“You’ll give me hope, that I’m yours.” He dips his head onto his forehead. “Only yours.” 

George’s heart shudders: shakes as it beats and runs a cold finger down his spine. 

_“All kings envision golden, so exist the soldiers. No vulture is golden, no spear is yellow. 80 hearts ad desperate, graceful.”_ He quips. George quivers, shuts his eyes, leans past his touch. He leans his head up.

“ _No soldier is blue, no peasant is painful.”_ He recites, meeting his shuddered gaze with green eyes of his own. If only he could steal a kiss. _“They never hurt the lips nor the bones with desire like you.”_

George lets his eyelashes flutter. Open only a sliver to see past the softened features of Dream.

He leans in, encaptures his lips in a kiss.

He swoons, against the buttercups. Lies past the lilies. He tastes his skin, his soft lips. Raw from habits of plucking skin and swiping tongue over his upper lip. Most he desires the way his stomach churns and strums an ugly tune besides himself.

He opens his mouth briefly for air, then tilts his nose into his cheek. Lax, tired, his eyelids fall and the eyelashes that flutter against his skin tickle him gently. 

He wonders past the heart that pulled him in when it changed. When he desired past ramming him against a wall, unwinding him into a breathy mess. When he desired to feel his lips against his, when he began to desire waking up next to him. 

When he began to desire that soft smile, and that loving gaze. When he began to stop hating himself, and began to start loving another. The feeling that splits you apart, the desire to be everything to that person, and for that person to let them be everything for you. 

He desires the comfort of a home that never was. Then lets the nebulous feeling turn him slush as he rests his lips against his and kisses back with the desire he held in his palm.

_Through these eyes I find, 70 hearts grow never._

Dream pulls for air, and detaches his obsession. Drags a swallow against his throat, past his pride. George’s eyes flutter. He’s struck, remembering how beautiful he was. Like it was the first time that night, when he saw him in the garden.

His breath parts and he sighs, holding his breath.

“I’m sorry.” George whispers, pulling back. Whispers against his lips.

“No,” Dream breathes, “you’re not.”

George’s lips tremble against his, pressing a silent kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Please, stay.”

How does he allure him so greatly? How does he slot into the part Dream vowed to never trust? “And let you work your inner feelings into my heart? You’ve deviated past your own path, smashed my heart aside.” 

Dream swallows. Pecks him quietly. Feels just the press of lips and the lemon scent that’s soured. “How can I stay, in the presence of a traitor?”

George swallows a helpless whimper, drinks in the presence of him. 

“I’m your king.” George reminds.

Dream whispers, past the shuddered onslaught he could never control. “You are no king of mine.”

He pushes past his fragile touch, adjusts his mask. Vulnerable, not willing to expose his heart.

He leaves the garden.

\--

Dream inserts himself back into Sapnap’s conversation. Tuned out, he slides his fingers against his wooden cup. The drink swirls around the rim, dances gently back into a plodding pool or tepid wine and flavours hollow to him.

His eyes unfocus, then draw to George in the crowd. Past their parting, He dances. Laughs. His hand drips in the muck of other people’s touches. He twirls a girl, maybe leans in to kiss her.

Dream parts from the conversation politely, says a few words, then drives his feet around the castle.

The field is full of people dancing.

Dream walks past them, past even then.

He rounds into the stables.

Nobody’s here.

He drags a hand down his face, moves towards Spirit with gentle ease. Spirit neighs, gives a gentle click of their tongue and shakes their head. He smiles gently, moves towards them and drags his hand to pet them. His boots are soiled, muddied as he laughs quietly to their enthusiasm of seeing him.

“Hey, Spirit,” He voice drips in a fond tone.

Spirit neighs, then press their head into his palm.

He laughs. Weakly. His voice wobbles, his knees feel like collapsing in.

Tears stream down his face before he knows it, and his smile dies. Despite the warm tears drowning his cheeks, there’s no room left in his heart.

The empty feeling of being hollow.

George breathes. “Dream.” He whispers, walking up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Dream sniffles back a sob. “Of all times?” 

“You’re hurt.” George drags a clean hand across his shoulder. Presses his thumb softly into the skin.

“Yes, wounded. On the heart. Want me to further open my wounds for you to see it?” Dream shoots, quietly. His throat rubbed raw, each word hurts to speak. Pushes past the spikes of a million metals. Not even magic could fix. 

“I’m not him.” He’s right, his voice is too fond. He would never hurt him.

“You are.”

“At the same time I’m also you.” As if that’s comforting

“How could I have forgotten?” Dream spits, shrugging his hands off his shoulder. “You’re a figment of my imagination.”

“Speak like that and he might find his way here.”

He sounds so calm. So collected. Like an old childhood friend taken away.

“I’m sorry.” Dream whispers, drags himself to George’s embrace. George holds his ghostly arms out and holds. He drags a finger down his spine, quietly softens his inner workings and the knots in his muscles he’s rethreaded. 

“I know.” George whispers. Dream buries his face in his neck.

“I am.”

“I know, Dream.” He coos, rubs his hair. Drags gentle fingernails against scalp and bury his face against him.

“I don’t want to keep hurting.”

“Shhh,” George calms, moving to sit down on the bench beside the stalls. Dream only hesitantly has to be dragged, curling back into him. The life support he’d never attain. “It’s going to be ok.”

“No it won’t.” Dream whispers.

George considers. “No, it won’t.” His fingers drag his locks of hair against his palm. Buries his nose into his neck and rests his forehead against his skin. His face splits, painfully. “It won’t.” He rocks him against him.

Dream drags his mask across his face, pushes it aside, clasp for George’s woollen shirt. George moves, grabs his hands quietly. He holds them timidly in his own. Runs a finger against his palm.

“I need to talk to Philza,” Dream hiccups.

George turns into the crook of his neck, pulls Dream closer. 

“Why?” He whispers.

“You know.” Dream whispers. “You know.”

George kisses his neck quietly to calm his shaking figure down, holds him tighter, and ignores the tears pushing past his barriers. His lips linger on his skin, soft and long and sweet, kissing his collarbones. Past his own wants, past his own needs.

The moon rises high.

\--

As the stars peak, Dream forces himself to return back to the castle. George slides against the music, giggles, heart full with love as he drags a girl's hand in his palm.

The rims under Dream’s eyes puncture his form, watches him retreat back to the castle with her hand in his.

He never sees him, never spares a glance looking for him. 

Dream drags the stupid mask off his face, forcefully digging a finger under the ribbon and untying it. As it discards, he moves to the gate, walks out quietly.

The shell of his mask lies by the table, forgotten and rocking against the gravity of pain.

Dream rips at his coat, moves past the guard and the crowd still outside the gate. He throws it off him, grabs it onto his hand and drags his barren feet across the concrete.

He goes home.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi :D i rushed to finish this one so sorry about the extremely poor quality but here we are :)  
> side note can i please make one chapter im proud of  
> less angst this time around, next chapter is better and worse (according to my 2 word long plot notes)
> 
> as always, my twt is @raytick4 come talk to me there. thank you to all fanartists, comments, bookmarks, etc :)  
> dont harass creators  
> peace


	11. [Order]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream goes out on a limb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for violence

\--

Patches claws at the fabric of his socks, pawing at the cloth before scurrying away, disinterested. Techno rocks in his chair, hums and thumbs at his glasses, setting them aside. 

“You wanted to talk to me?” Techno leans into the back of his chair smoothly. The rock of it sways him comfortably as his leg bounces in anticipation. Dream’s hands fidget with the book in his lap, one leg crossed under his other knee in the chair across from him.

“I need a favour,” Dream confesses. “It’s about your brothers.”

Techno’s eyes don’t darken like he’s seen them do in other days. They grow tired, worn from the actions of his adopted family. His twin, his younger brother who clambered to him for help, then betrayed his trust once more.

“I know you let them into the castle walls.”

Techno opens his mouth to speak then closes it. He retracts his stiffened body position, slacks into one of composed tiredness.

“They’re my family.”

“I know.” Dream reminds. “I’m not holding you accountable for their actions.”

The heavy sunlight wears on Dream’s posture. “But they’re planning something,” Techno finishes.

“Right.” Dream whispers. The image of George is soft in the worn corners of his vision. “I don’t care about the monarchy-- I know you don’t either.”

“It’s about George, isn’t it?” Techno quips.

Dream nods, quietly, then tucks his chin to stare at the discarded book in his lap. “I wish him no harm, and I wish no harm to the rest of the kingdom.” Dream breathes. 

“Please,” Dream looks up to Techno again, “Negotiate with them, or at the very least find out their plans. I refuse to sit around as my friends lives are lost.”

Techno contemplates. “Is it your friends, that you care about?”

Dream blinks. “Need I make myself more clear?”

“No,” Techno waves his hand. “I’m all for anarchy, but.”

“But?”

Techno sighs heavily, drapes his head to the side to avoid Dream’s risen gaze. “They will get themselves killed.”

Dream’s throat clicks as he swallows a sigh. Beyond his morals, the desperate hunger for chaos, he doesn’t wish to see his friends burn alive. Not again.

“De-escalate the conflict, tell me what they’re planning. Please, Techno.” He stares him down, watches him turn the crown he was once supposed to inherit in his hands with a dutiful look. “If not for me, for Phil.”

Techno thins his lips and swipes a tongue over his bottom lip.

“Ok.”

“Okay?” Dream asks.

Techno nods, places the crown back on his head and leans back. Legs crossed, he looks like the king he was supposed to be. 

“I’ll do it.”

\--

War ravages past battlefields and broken soldiers, to the kingdom's decay of crops as they continue fighting a perilous battle.

They’ll come any day now, Dream worries, tapping his foot across the wooden surface. Come and take everything. 

He hardly scavenges the mind like he used to anymore, just sits. Quietly watches the clock tick by.

Patches meows and a clatter is heard from upstairs as distinct footsteps carefully tread down the stairs. 

“Where is he?” Caroline asks.

Dream frowns. “Who?”

“George.”

He treads past a sigh, letting his breath twirl out of his lungs elegantly. “Obviously not here.”

“Can you not contact him for information? To tell him what's--”

Dream pinches past his own pain, “Somehow, Caroline, I doubt he wants to listen to my voice. Much less tell him that there’s another planned attack coming.”

He and Techno should’ve talked somewhere more discrete, but perhaps taking Techno out to the barn wouldn’t be the best idea. If he knows his reputation, anyways.

“...Not even your daydreams?”

“No,” Dream pushes. “Not even my daydreams.” 

Caroline thins her lips. “Where will we go? If war rages?”

Dream swallows past his own sharp ego, stuck high in his throat.

“I don’t know.”

\--

The tavern whispers with soft music, reflective of dreary sunlight that hardly casts over the roofs of peasants. The idle tune plays, as chatter fills the room. The rain pushes past the clouds outside and blankets the ground as it falls. 

Dream opens the door with the faintest jingle above him, steps into the quiet clatter of familiarity. Nobody turns to look at him besides the tavern owner, who spares a measly glance at his unmasked face. The owner goes back to cleaning glasses, pours a shot and moves to the front of the counter. 

Dream beckons himself over, slides the few gold coins he still had onto the counter. It slides against the wood when he uncaps his palm and looks at him. “Two regen, 4 harming.”

The owner nods, slightly, moves towards the back.

His hand slides over bottles of swirls and concoctions he’s dared try once or twice, then picks up two drinks that swirl in mist with pink, and another that steams a deep maroon.

He slides them across the counter, and Dream slides them into his bag cautiously. “Thank you.”

The owner nods, takes the coins, then slides back to the people by the bar.

He watches, with a soft eye, as two women converse eagerly by the end of the bar. One looks over at him briefly, to which he nods his head downwards politely, then twists on his heel to leave. 

The tavern lies in a corner, right by the edge of where the outer city walls meet with the inner city walls. The ones protecting the nobility, the castle. Dream breathes past the cold air, the mist around him dancing quietly among the falling rain. He swipes a hand under his hood and flips it over his head, moving against the dance of nature.

He drags his hand into the cobblestone of the inner city wall and latches his feet into it, drags himself up, and finds himself on the other side of the wall with practised ease. He sours, dragging his eyes across the dulled grass. 

His feet scuff the cobblestone and disturb the grass as he makes way past houses he’s never stopped to see before. Elegant, they carve upwards towards the sky. Dream grips the strap of his bag, slung across his shoulder and continues.

He walks onto the bridge with caution, his footsteps paced quicker until he feels the sense of safety of being in front of the castle again, of being held in the protective bubble he’d grown to love.

Mid-November air brushes his exposed ankles, and he shudders. Past the passage of time, he glances only a moment at the garden and rounds the right towards the stables.

Safer, than watching the lilies. He drags against the opened field beside him, then follows the weak grass path into the exposed stables. Attached to the hip of the castle, he finds a little comfort seeing the horses again. He rushes towards Spirit instinctively. 

He skids to a stop in front of them, and they neigh excitedly seeing him again. He smiles quietly and fondly at them, drags a hand to their face. He runs his hand through their mane quietly, as they buck up and drag excitedly against his presence.

“Hey, Spirit.” He whispers. They grumble passively, and he laughs quietly. Not a wheeze, or a laugh that left him gasping for air and his lungs deflated, but the passive one that shows interest.

He wanders his eyes for a moment, pulling back to Spirit. His eyes double-take, stare back at the stable diagonal to Spirits, on the other side, labelled “Star”, in worn letters.

It’s empty, the flies in it buzz with boredom. Dream’s face drop.

“Dammit, George.” He mumbles. The feeling in his gut that dragged him out to the city presses against his consciousness as he unlocks the door to Spirits stable.

He drags towards Spirit, quietly taking the dangling reins and dragging it over their head as he hooks his foot into the stirrup. He pulls himself up, swings his foot across them, then clicks his tongue quietly. Reigns digging into the calluses of his hand, he clicks his tongue.

Spirit grumbles at him, then walks quietly out, following Dream’s steadied path. Gentle breadcrumbs, pieces of torn paper litter towards the end of the stable, suggesting George took a turn towards the forest.

Dream sighs past his own worries, holds his bag shut quietly, then clicks Spirit on. 

\--

When the sound of quips of conversation and fragments of laughter reach his ear, is when Dream slows back to a walk. The forest is thick by this end, the trees allowing little space to squeeze through. Dream shoots an apologetic look to Spirit as he ties their reigns by a tree nearby the camp, and continues the following few paces on foot.

Tents huddled around a campfire, a rampant clanging sound echoing from deep within an opening into a cavern. Dream faintly recognises this place as the place he and George waited in after their meeting.

Dream walks in a few paces, and nobody notices him at first. He hardly blends in, his armour more damaged than the shining armour of higher up soldiers. Some he trained with, one that was his old mentor, others he trained. 

George sits by the campfire quietly, he stares into the soft fire with intent, avoiding engagement in conversation.

He looks up, only for a second to scan his men, then falls his eyes on Dream, who adjusts his mask uncomfortably. 

“Dream.” He whispers, almost a question.

A few soldiers go silent, turn to him with quiet curiosity, then turn back to their conversation.

“What are you doing?” He steps in, towards the inner campfire. George’s eyes are trained on him. “Leaving your kingdom, to invoke more war?”

George’s mouth falls open, for the slightest second.“They came in, took our supplies, killed out men.”

“Are you mad?” Dream raises, “Going to attack them on their own territory, leaving yours unclaimed?”

“They-”

“George.” Dream stops him. Now the soldiers who sat by the fire stop, watch him address the king dangerously, in a way all of them were too afraid to do. No, your highness, no my king attached. “Don’t look me in the eyes, and tell me you thought this through,”

George looks, nervously, to the men who watch Dream’s boldness, gives them a glare and turns back. “I didn’t think this through, no. My cabinet did.” The one he was no longer a part of.

“No offense.” He means, with full offence. “But your cabinet is misguided. Severely.”

“How so?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” Dream drags. “You're abandoning your territory, for something that was hardly called an attack. I woke up this morning, in cold sweat, with some sick version of you telling me you’re in  _ danger  _ and the shit you pull-”

“Stop.” George commands. He stands up, watches him with angered eyes.

“Mad?” Dream tempts. “That I’ll go? Tell the whole kingdom about-”

“Shut up.” George hisses, drags towards him and grabs the front of his shirt behind his armour. “You have no authority over me. You are a knight, and I am your king.” He drags a quiet pocket knife to his throat, holds him here, accountable. 

Dream breathes a sigh against the pressure, gulps tirelessly. “You are no king of mine,” He whispers.

George clenches his jaw. “You forget yourself.”

“Do I?” Dream whispers, makes no action to move, despite the knowledge he held on how to rid himself of this situation. Some sick, twisted part of him desires it. “You are a weak ruler.”

George drags the knife closer to his skin as Dream drags a swallow past his ego, past his pride. “I’m hardly a weak ruler, I’m in power for a reason.”

“Yes, your family handed you power while the rest of us continued to live in our poverty.” Dream grimaces against the pressure of the blade. “You haven’t worked a day in your life, what makes you sure you know the people? Know your soldiers? Know your guard?”

The camp goes silent.

George twists his fingers against the hilt, clenches his teeth and tightens his jaw to keep from spilling words he dared not speak in front of others. “You dare speak what you spoke to me in that garden,” He lowers his voice, “Then come back and lecture me on my ruling? You disgust me.”

The words hit him.

_ “No, no I can’t- not with another man,” He trips over his words, avoiding eye contact at all costs. “It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.” _

His stomach holds the inner feelings, the inner workings of betrayal, and the way his heart screams past his hold. How no matter how many times he played this push and pull game, coming back selfishly then pushing away for his own good, he still wanted him. Through the one-sided mirror of knowing he’d never be loved the way he wanted to.

Of knowing he’d never find love in the bastard of a king.

“Bastard,” He whispers. “You are a half-elf bastard, taking a throne that isn’t yours,” He utters, vile tipping on the back of his tongue.

George freezes in his step, retracts his knife.

“You’ve been dismissed.”

Dream holds his gaze. “You can’t get rid of me.”

He continues back to the cavern. “But YOU can get rid of ME?” He swirls on his heel. “YOU have no right to speak to me.” He growls past the pit in his voice. The gaping arch of his words. “Get out, Get out of my sight. I dare to try to resolve our conflict, but you push me out then pull for me- for my help,” he corrects. “Past whatever I said,  _ I know you heard it,  _ and how much I dared to even-”  _ care about you.  _ His head fills.

George plays past his words. No soldier has said anything in minutes.

“Go. I don’t want to see you again. This is your final warning.”

Dream clenches his jaw, takes a half step back. The conversation is over.

A struggle breaks the tender air, a soldier helmet clatters to Dream’s right. As Dream moves to look, he feels cool metal replace its place back on Dream’s throat. He swears lowly to himself, feels himself still as his gaze draws back to the camp. Clatters and shouts fill the air, muffled yelps resounding through the air.

Dream swallows hesitantly, fear pressing his brain back into the real world. George on the other side watches, with bated breath, as some guy keeps his sword tight against his throat.

_ This dumbass.  _ Dream thinks, bitterly. He wills his need to squirm, stays still.

There’s a careful silence when nobody moves, then someone  _ somewhere  _ makes noise. Past the tension, it moves quickly again as one of George’s men somehow finds himself out of his dangerous position. He has his sword drawn, and the enemy drags his sword up to.

The guy pressing his blade against Dream’s throat loosens his grip for only a split second as Dream slides his hands up into the area of his arm. One hand grips his elbow, the other turns his arm painfully in a way that shouldn’t work, the crack that follows leaving the opposing guy crumpled backwards on the ground.

Dream swivels on his heel, kicks his feet into his face and watches as he falls backwards once more. 

George’s foot riskily connects with the stranger's leg, sweeping him down onto the ground, causing him to stumble back a bit before pushing off his feet back up. The soldier swiftly lands back down onto the ground on two legs.

George’s hand swipes towards his own sword, hand clenched around the blade tighter, feeling his palms sweat in anticipation and causing the handle to become slippery and loose in his grip. The stranger’s chest heaved up and down. Taking a few hurried steps forwards, he connected his foot with his side. The soldier’s body rang up and down like a tuning fork, then slumped onto the ground. 

Dream merely stared for a moment, before pushing his foot into his own problem’s injured shoulder. A sharp hiss was ripped from the back of his throat as Dream used his other foot to kick his blade out of his hand, watching it clatter away.

After wiping his eyes from the crumpled body, Dream’s feet click against the gravel ground as he rushes to George. George stares at the body, heaving and turning back to the camp. Dream drags his sword up and moves towards him.

“You-” George starts, about to scold Dream. In the commotion, another man hurries towards the masked man. He drags his blade up and staggers back as metals slide against each other. Through the mistakes of his footing, he feels himself back onto the ground. 

Dream reaches for the stranger’s foot and flips him over. They both clatter to their feet, eyes locked on each other. The stranger moves first, bringing the sword to strike him.

Dream dodges the sword, and in one fluid motion, reaches and kicks the stranger’s feet out, then his hand. He gaps in pain, and the sword falls to the ground. 

He moves up against his feet, the gentle scraping of metal from far away ringing in his ears. Snapping his body away from the stranger's angry punch and one hand locking with the stranger's jaw sent him flying backwards. His head whips back, body arched, momentum snapped him like a rubber band. It seems like he hangs there in the air for a moment, before he connects his face with the ground.

The man hangs on the ground for a moment, collecting his strength back as he lifts himself back up off his toes. 

Before he can register, the stranger's blade strikes his side, splitting the skin where he hit and feeling the beginning of a wound start to form. Sure enough, blood slowly started to flow down his side, cold in comparison to the burning feeling of his own skin. 

Dream staggers backwards from the force of the hit, feeling his legs collapse under him as he feels himself back into a wall.

George drags into the conversation, slides the man’s blade away and drags him out of the cave. Scraps of metal dance in his vision, and Dream fights himself as he drags back down against the rock wall.

His hand flinches towards Dream’s side, applying pressure to the wound despite the animalistic instinct in him screaming to leave it bleed.

He breathes, heavily, the lungs in his air draining and tiring. Colours spin in the corner of his vision, and his head feels weighted against his neck.

George’s voice quietly sounds beside him. “Fuck- Fuck, Dream, shit.” His nimble fingers fumble around him, moving the broken armour and flinching above the deep-set wound. His hands shake above the blood, scrambled voice muttering curses. 

“Don’t ever fucking do that again,” it sounds like his voice hurts, his face unfocused but filling the corners of his vision. “You’re so reckless-”

“Says you,” Dream fights still, against the pain. He tips his head against the wall. “God, I need new armour.”

“Now isn’t the time to think about your  _ armour. _ ” His voice is breathy. 

Dream sighs, weakly. “What am I supposed to do as I bleed out? Think about you?”

George goes silent, continues applying feeble pressure to his side. 

“Is that a yes?” Dream jokes.

“Stop-” George whispers. “Stop joking.”

Dream frowns. “N’ do what? Sit here in silence?”

George audibly swallows, Dream closes his eyes. George’s fingers shake a little more, apply a little more pressure, drag against his skin a little more worriedly. 

“Don’t close your eyes, look at me.”

Dream blinks, wonders what the big deal is. “I am. Relax.”

“I can’t “relax”.” He whispers, moves his head through Dream’s blurry vision. “Just focus on me, my face,” he mumbles.

“Mm,” Dream hums in response, the weight of his body fighting against a deep wound getting hard to keep his eyes open and his brain awake. 

They always describe it as going black, suddenly. Dream prefers to explain it as a blanket slowly enveloping you. 

“Dream-” George’s voice calls, and he hangs on for just a second more for his voice. 

Then he fades.

\--

_ Don’t tempt the resolution of fate, _ someone had once said to him,  _ it’s too dangerous to tread over waters you dare ignore. _

_ Yet ever to feel a night, it sensed a King.  _

_ Skies, lips, locks, those are our true dusk. To lead, we heard. To love, we lost. Only the moon grows as a wild heart. Where were the luminous lies then?  _

_ Lovers felt the heart between the disingenuous acatalepsy, devotedly but wilfully. But when the lovers whisper turned to a shout-- _ The rest is crossed out in ink. 

_ Soldiers fall where our rivers rise, and our angels are made of our bones. _

_ To love, we hied. To see, we revealed. To give, we drove. To hunt, we wed. _

\--

Dream huffs a grunt through his nose as he fumbles upwards, wincing as he supports himself with his hand to rest his back on the pillows. His side is screaming in agony, like fire tearing up paper as it spread throughout the rest of his body.

His hand never leaves his side, the blood soaking the bandages red and the pain dulling out the sound of everything else.

His limbs feel numb, and his eyelids droop with exhaustion, desperately needing to go back to sleep and let his body heal itself. 

A door creaks open hesitantly, and Dream murmurs a go away to the nurse that came to ask him if he was ok for the nth time. 

Obviously, he bloody wasn’t.

“You’re hurt,” comes a familiar voice. That voice, it sounds like water but tears Dream’s insides up like fire.

“George?”

George stands by the doorframe, with his eyebrows scrunched and his eyes glazed with worry.

“You’re hurt.” He states. Dream scoffs and lifts his hand experimentally off of his side to continue the joke, though alleviating the pressure doesn’t help his open wound.

“Yes, I believe I am.”

“You bloody fucking-- where is the nurse?” George rushes quickly to his side, pulling up the only chair in the room and already examining the wound beneath the heavy bandage. He’s never heard him sound as panicked as he was. 

“George, I’m fine,” A lie. 

“No you’re not,” George states matter of factly, taking Dream’s palm into his own hand and wiping at the blood that soaked through the bandages.

“It’s fine, I’ve survived worse.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” George whimpers, tracing the lines in Dream’s palm like he thought he was about to die.

“I’m your-- a knight, it’s to be expected.”

“You’re also my friend.” It sounds like a lie, it sounds like he wants past the realm of friendship. 

Dream’s brows furrow, releasing a conscious breath and letting himself sink into the feeling of George tracing the lines in his hand. 

“Dream-” George starts, looking at him.

“-Clay,” Dream finishes. “That’s my name. It’s Clay. Dream is my knightley nickname. Bad gave it to me.” He presses his lips into a thin line. “I know you know it.”

George blinks. “Clay,” he tries out on his tongue, and Dream’s heart flips a little. “You look like you’ve been kissed by death, and you tell me your name is Clay?” Formally, anyways

“Rather kissed by you,”

He’s dead serious when he says it. George’s face twists, his eyebrows pressing together and his face torn with worry. 

“You nearly died and that’s the first thing you think of?” Past the break in his voice, and the worry in his tone, he holds his hand by the bed. Tracing idle lines past the veins, and softly cupping it between his two hands.

“Naturally.” Dream replies with a tight smile. Tight because of the pain, but a smile otherwise. 

“I was so- so worried.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve died, Clay,”

Dream hesitates at his name, before turning away shamefully. “I know.”

“Then why?”

Dream shrugs as much as he can through the pain, turning his head back to the man staring at him with those caring eyes. What he’d give to have the owner of those eyes be his. “My pride, maybe.” He replies.

George gently drifts his hand to the injured man’s cheek, running a thumb over the scar healing on his nose. 

Dream quietly moves his own hand and takes George’s, leaning his cheek into the warmth of the touch.

Finally, he feels at rest, letting himself melt into the heat and shut his eyes peacefully. 

“Nonono don’t die on me here,”

“I’m not dying, idiot,” Dream scolds. “I’m just resting.”

George scoffs, and Dream can already imagine the smile quirking on his lips. 

“Fine, use my hand as a pillow will you?”

“I will, thank you.” 

A moment passes, George takes Dream’s hand into his own, by his face. He frowns again, dips his face into his palm. He presses a lingering kiss to his palm, then watches Dream’s eyes with solemnity. “It’s not safe here. You have to go as soon as you can.”

“George-”

Dream cuts himself off, sees the watery pain slicing George’s cheeks as he leans back into his cheek. He can feel the tears stain him, shred him apart.

“Please.” He whispers, afraid of the possibility of his voice cracking. “It’s not safe.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

George swallows past his pride. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Dream moves his thumb across his chin. “I don’t want you getting hurt either.”

“Please, Dream,” He slowly detaches his hand from his cheek. “Not in war. I have a duty.”

“I do too, dammit!” Dream sits up more, despite the pain in his side. “It’s to protect you. I’m your  _ fucking knight _ .”

“And as your King,” He starts, past the glaze in Dream’s eyes. “I can dismiss you of that responsibility.”

Dream’s heart plummets, the pulsing feeling as it slows to a stop. “Please, George.”

“You have to leave soon.” George reiterates, with all the strength of a child, “You have to go.”

He rocks in his seat, Dream watches George’s eyes with patient want.

“Ok,” He whispers. “Just 5 more minutes.”

\--

_ “Can I?” _

_ He nods. _

_ Dream’s lips ghost over the others, chilled breath, unpleasant to the reflex which screams to pull back. He tries again, the hint of contact between softer skin that ignites no sparkes. The distance closed, it’s just like the first time in no sense. _

_ It’s hollow, devoid of life. He’s aware he’s kissing him with nothing back, just pressing a body against the wall with meaning that flops into nothing. His hands fumble at the place where his jaw sharply divides into his pale neck. Unmarked, unclaimed. He tries dragging a limp finger against his chin, maybe even tilting his head into it a bit more. _

_ He pulls back. All that lingers now is the string of bitter air that loops between them. _

_ “I’m sorry,” George whispers. His eyes are dropped, tired, exhausted, millions of other synonyms for drowned that’d never describe just how hollow they were. No light reflected, no waves that’d swallow him. Just a dull brown that once drove him mad when it was less guilty.  _

_ “No, don’t.” He pulls away. “Apologise I mean.” _

_ “I know its-” _

_ Dream steps back. “No, I know. You can’t force feelings.” _

_ George frowns. “I miss you.” _

_ He blinks away the guilt that looms in the corner of his eyes, shutting his eyelids tight for a second. Pretend the world wasn’t there. _

_ He nods quietly and stands away from the back wall. _

_ “I should- go.”  _

_ George nods, sadly. “Yeah.” _

_ He stands in place for a moment then leaves his regrets behind, sitting in a desolate room and pulling at the strings of his wants. _

_ The trees sway quietly outside, and he can distantly hear the sounds of guards returning. He climbs up the hilltop and leaves as quickly as his feet will take him. _

_ Though his feet are pounding, his heart is stopping. Lulls quietly into a false sense of safety. _

He wakes up alone, the underbrush growing around his feet and softening the metaphorical fall.

He drives his head back into the ground, reminisces on the feeling, and wonders what he did wrong. 

\--

Techno sits in his chair, drinks his tea. Rocks against the wood and crosses his legs. 

“I have news.”

Dream quietly watches his face, touches the week-old bandages with curiosity and sighs. 

“Go on.”

\--

When Techno leaves, Dream slips on his shoes and waves the most meagre goodbye to his family as he slips out the door. For good measure, he climbs the gates as he did with Sapnap, ending up still as the same drenched mess he was before.

His walk through town is quiet, fiddling with the soaked bandages as he fumbles with his feet and occasionally has to sit down to keep from falling. In some fairy tales he was told as a child, his lover would come and sit beside him by the bed every day. Comfort him as he recovered, and pressed quiet kisses to his forehead and said he would be okay.

Sometimes, he likes to sit in bed and imagine that George is there. Sometimes his daydreams come, sometimes they fulfil the selfish desires of his heart.

Most times he sits in silence, drives back into the pillow, asks for what he did wrong and waits for the pain to subside as he only wishes for love to be returned. 

Dream drags himself across the city, all the grace of an injured dog. Climbing inner-city walls takes a toll on his side, healing and fragile, but at the moment his side seems unimportant. As much as he hates his voice, hates his smile, he has to face his fears. Injured or not, he drags past the guards and rounds the castle to the back.

Everything blurs into one motion, hand onto the tiles, slipping his foot in where he could then boosting up another tile. Painfully, he pretends to ignore the strain in his side as he drags in through an opened hallway window on the 2nd floor.

Patience hardly takes him, as he forces himself up the stairs, flights of movement to skim towards his side.

Eventually, he opens into a hallway he recognises. With passive curiosity, and painful want, he stares at his old room, the door closed.

He flicks his eyes away, then takes 8 paces towards George’s room.

His eyes flicker against the scene, and George’s quiet panic goes silent when he hears footsteps. Slow, familiar footsteps.

_ “I’m sorry.” George whispers, pulling back. Whispers against his lips. _

_ “No,” Dream breathes, “you’re not.” _

_ George’s lips tremble against his, pressing a silent kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Please, stay.” _

_ How does he allure him so greatly? How does he slot into the part Dream vowed to never trust? “And let you work your inner feelings into my heart? You’ve deviated past your own path, smashed my heart aside.”  _

_ Dream swallows. Pecks him quietly. Feels just the press of lips and the lemon scent that’s soured. “How can I stay, in the presence of a traitor?” _

_ George swallows a helpless whimper, drinks in the presence of him.  _

_ “I’m your king.” George reminds. _

_ Dream whispers, past the shuddered onslaught he could never control. “You are no king of mine.” _

Dream pushes past the memories, leans against the door’s archway painfully. His hands grip at the side of his nightstand, head hung. 

Dream’s hands glide to the back of his head smoothly, the way there is familiar in a way it wasn’t before.

With the soft sound of ribbons untying, his mask clatters to the ground. 

“Good to see you,” he breathes. “King George.”

The room goes silent.

“My words have consequences.” George whispers, looking ahead, out the window. “I’m sorry you had to bear the burden of them.”

He sighs.

“To forgive but not forget.” Dream drags a finger across the wooden doorframe, watches George know his presence. He feels the weight of his emotions. 

“I’m sorry.” George whispers

“I know.”

“You’re not disgusting.”

“No, and neither are you.”

George hangs his head. His shoulders are loose, holding the table beneath him. His shoulders ache, tremble violently as his knuckles turn white and his face turns red. His eyes grow weary of his responsibilities, quiet drops of water pooling against his face. “I was so scared you were going to die.”

Dream frowns. 

“My father-“

“I know.” Dream whispers

George goes quiet for a moment, and his whole body untenses. His shoulder hands over his shoulders, his crown clatters on the floor with gentle disregard. Was it the crown that made him king? Or him? “Please forgive me.”

Dream sits against his feelings. “I can’t excuse you, or your actions,” he looks away, “But.”

George breathes heavily, for a lingering second. The ray of hope beams in his worn voice. “But?”

“But I can try to help. Help you understand.”

Soft whimpers fill the air as George's hands his head again. He refuses to look at him as he grips onto life. “I just want to be normal.”

“I know,” Dream whispers. He drags towards the bed frame, recognises where the bed was used to him sitting. Where it was used to him dipping into the cover and laughing along during breakfast or during late nights. Dream pushes his feet against the wooden floor, then dips his head onto George’s shoulder. George shivers, cold to the touch.

Dream quietly laces his fingers around his front, patiently dips his face into the crease of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” His voice cracks from pressure again, Dream loops his hand with his, tenderly removing himself from the poor man’s back. George grips his hand as tight as he can, lets Dream drag him towards the bed. 

Dream sits down by the pillows. George drags himself from the stand and lies his head into the crease of his neck. He lies in his lap quietly, wraps his arms around his back, relaxes into the touch. 

His tears sting Dream’s skin, burying closer towards him as if he felt safe, as if he was his safety. His tears feel heavy from the weight of his guilt. Strong than words of he’s trying to be different. Stronger than any sentence could portray.

Right now, being imperfect was ok. He’s trying.

“Shh,” Dream coos, runs his pointer finger down his spine calmly. “I know,”

“I’m so sorry you don’t deserve-“

“Stop,” Dream whispers, holds him closer. He drags a gentle hand across the back of his neck. “I’m proud of you, you’re trying.” 

George cuddles into him, just sobs and holds Dream and waits for the day to burn his skin from his face and to finally relinquish his guilt. 

_ You’re disgusting. _

“Please,” He whispers, “Don't go.”

_ “You’re not alone in this, you understand?” _

_ George blinks at Dream and nods, thankfully. He lets the softest, most fond smile drench his face. His eyes are so soft. _

_ “Thank you.” _

“I won’t. I won’t leave, I promise.”

“Thank you,” George whispers, weak. 

He holds him there for a moment, reassures him with quiet words that it’s ok, and that’s safe. He can feel the words of George’s long-winded apology exhaust him, feel his body drain and his eyes grow tired. His apologies are met with “hey, you’re safe. You don’t need to be afraid.”

“I love you,” Dream whispers into his hair, petting him quietly, unsure if it’ll help. George shakes when he cries, then tenses for a second as he calms, constantly grasping at Dream’s shirt to make sure he’s real, to make sure he’s not going to leave. Dream holds him tighter as this happens, feels George’s own weight making his own eyes hurt from holding back his own emotions. Eventually, dams break down. 

George only rocks into him and buries his face in his neck, sitting there and needing it, the reassurance someone else is there. Dream needs reassurance himself. That George is ok, and that he’s different from his father, that he’s willing to learn.

“You mean the world to me.”

“More.” George whispers, strangled, “You mean more to me” 

Dream comforts him in sharing his emotions, finally letting it out after years of holding barriers up. 

“Really?”

“Really.” George whispers. You can hear past his tone how he means it.“I feel safe.” 

“Here?”

“With you.” 

They sit in silence.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (singular) yike  
> i ask for one chapter i can write and be proud of. one (1) that i do not Grimace with my whole face at.  
> anyways as always my twt is @raytick4 come talk to me, dont harass creators, and i'll see you next time
> 
> peace


	12. [Ragged Descent]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> philza's alliance is dubious at best, dream's nightmares grow, and george's hold on the crown falters; if just for a second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that we have confirmation that, and i quote, george thinks dnf medieval au is "hot" how are we feeling? i'm not doing great (/lh)  
> also finally: a crumb of fluff. i know, i know.
> 
> ALSO ALSO here's the song i play on repeat while writing: je te laisserai des mots by patrick watson. someone pointed it out in the comments and i instantly fell in love with it

\--

Midnight. Phil’s breath leaves him quietly, dusting the cool winter air around him. The glass pyramid stands, encrusted with diamonds. Where he lived, huddled by warm fires and a mineshaft turned indoor palace. Plants hand from the ceiling, warped vines climb to the room. Smoke envelops his lungs warmly, and Phil lets a sigh dot his even breath.

It’s turning winter, he quietly remarks. The leaves have begun to rot into the ground, the cool winter air flakes the breeze and turns the rain into soft powdered snow. Sometimes, he sits outside and catches the snow in a bucket. For experiments, he tells himself. For hatching dragon eggs, is the reality. 

Loom, the ice dragon that can fit into the palm of Phil’s hand, quietly snorts. Their breath comes out in a mist, swirling like cold smoke until it vanishes into the air. White and pure, the air settles around him.

Phil’s eyes retract over the scroll in his hand, gentle eyes dusting over the curve of the page, the sweeping turn of words.

Techno’s handwriting was always too neat for Phil’s eyes, he quietly remarks. Cursive, precise. Down straight to the point, it’s signed ‘Techno’ at the bottom. 

His hand drifts down the side of the parchment paper, notices the drops of ink he must have struggled to get onto the page.

He purses his lips then frowns, turning to Loom all the same.

“What d’you reckon happened to him?” He asks, voice parted low.

Loom, who isn’t capable of understanding human dialect, only huffs and snorts as they brush their wings with their snout. Albeit useless, Phil keeps his eyes trained on the creature.

“Nothing good,” he reasons with himself, eyes glazing over with trained vision he holds.

The paper crumbles under his grasp, and Phil briefly feels like a fool. Letting his son get away. 

_Hey._

It starts.

_It’s been a while since we talked, but updates on Wil’ and Tommy have--_

_\-- in their sense, the both of them are preoccupied with--_

_\--the gentle nature of the guard is not gentle at all, Phil--_

_\--you have to understand, they’re in danger--_

_\--Dream’s got George wrapped around his thumb, he could order their execution and nobody would bat an eye--_

_\-- I have an idea. But I need you to get back to me. As soon as you can._

_Techno._

Phil looks back up and shoots a glance with Loom.

“Well, we have work to do, don’t we?”

\--

Morning. Dream’s throat clicks as he swallows a groan, the early morning light doing nothing to soothe the ache of his head. Morning birds chirp a delicate tune. Whether in hopes to make Dream rise is unclear, but it works nonetheless. 

His head tilts onto the back of his pillow, feeling the way it softens around his head. He slowly catches his breath, with the beginnings of a cold sweat marking its way down the side of his face. His chest heaves slowly, as senses begin to flood him again with feeling.

The first thing he notices is that it’s pretty damn light outside, so it can’t be early morning. Dream hardly ever sleeps in.

It’s certainly a change for him. 

The sounds filter into his brain next, with the sounds of sheets ruffling and quiet chirps outside the castle. Footsteps hustle outside of his room, debating whispers hushing the air around him.

Dream breathes through his nose and sighs, the fresh air tickling the inside of his mouth like smoke. Tingling and lingering in the air as he releases it.

A warm presence shifts against his slick skin, the warmth tucked into the crook of his neck as it settles quietly. They gently shift into the warmth of his scent. The heat of his skin.

Dream freezes, the warm body cuddling into him unaware of the minuscule stiffening of his muscles. Nervously, he picks his hand from where it lies slumped beside him and runs a tense hand through the man’s hair. It’s a deep brown, not very curly or long but soft and smooth.

Dreams senses return to him slowly, and he sighs into the cloud he’s created above his head. He realises he’s in the castle, and momentarily his eyes flick down to the warmth pressed against him. 

_George._

He drags supple fingers across his scalp slowly, rubbing gentle circles into the hair that pokes at the nape of his neck. George’s body relaxes into his, and Dream’s very softly reminded of the events of yesterday. 

George lies comfortably against his chest. Listening to the gentle thrum of his heartbeat as he slumbers deeply. As the birds only begin to rise but the sun shines high with afternoon glow. 

George, glowing in the moon sun which accents him in a soft yellow. That quiet yellow that twinges on the edge of madness, the soft curl of gold that streaks his hair and his face and his limbs. He looks so peaceful and perfect and Dreams breath stalls in his throat. Waits, for a few quiet thrills to go away. His heartbeat still radiates languidly in his chest, something like pricks of fear pressing against the back of his throat.

There was something illegal, about allowing the king to curl into his side as he beats away from the worries of the world and drifts to a place where he fears nothing.

George’s face shuffles against Dream’s chest, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s awake.

“G’morning,” comes his thick accent, dripping in liquid gold much like the rest of him. Dream’s breath drops back down into his lungs as he’s left star-struck. His hair is dishevelled even more than the usual bedhead (likely a byproduct of sleeping on Dream’s chest) in something you’d never see on a king. Not a normal one.

Dream resists the urge to push the longer strands of hair out of his face for a moment, then shares a gaze with George. For a brief moment, he thinks how lucky he is, how he gets to see the private smile that lifts to George’s eyes when he makes a shitty joke, or when he smiles at him.

Pain inflicts its reasoning in his path. He has to go, _now._

George sees the flicker behind his eyelids and only shuts his eyes and presses his head against Dream’s chest. He listens to his heartbeat for a second, and Dream blinks. Confused, he lets the all too real feeling of love stringing his chest consume him. Just for a second, as he watches the morning sun paints a picture so beautiful he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to get up.

“Good morning,” he notes that for a few too many beats, his voice is rasp. Hoarse, and he doesn’t know whether it’s from lack of use or the lack of air in his lungs. Kicked out of him, his eyes stay trained. 

George’s eyelashes flutter as he lifts his head again and presses his head back into the crease of his neck and shifts again. 

“Any idea what time it is?” George whispers tightly. 

Dream’s eyes squint in the harsh moon sunlight. “Maybe midday. Not sure.” 

George hums and nods against his skin.

They sit for a second in silence. 

“What are we?” Dream asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

George hums. “What?”

Dream, ever the poet, loses his grasp on words for the second time in 5 minutes. “I mean are we friends— more?” 

George blinks, stares at him with a yearning look deeply set into the blue part of his iris. Dream’s throat feels raspy once more.

“Should we have to stop being friends if we’re more?”

Dream then mimicked George’s blank, then contemplative expression and watches as his eyebrows unfurrow.

“You’re right,” he quietly agrees. 

George smiles at him. “I always am.”

Dream scoffs, and for a moment he’s tempted to throw a pillow at his dumb face once again, all over again. 

—

“We do have to get up,” Dream remarks for the thousandth time after nearly falling asleep once more. 

George frowns, groans with displeasure. Dream lets a chuckle dust the air. “I know, I don’t want to get up either.”

“You could just ask Maria to bring breakfast in here?”

Dream presses his lips together thinly and contemplates the notion for just a moment.

“Nah.”

George’s eyebrows scrunch as his friend-- _lover?--_ shuffles out of bed to grab his tunic and his leather pants. George watches with ambient curiosity as he slides the simple clothes over his figure. He looks partially offended. “ _Nah?_ ”

Dream grins, that world-shattering smile. “Do you have any plans?”

“Dream there’s a cabinet meeting at--”

“Nevermind that,” He’s more giddy than usual, he notes to himself, then moves to tug at George’s wrist, who’s lying against the bedsheets like it was his only support in life.

“You’re not going to drag me swimming in this weather, are you?”

Why was swimming the first thing his brain raced to? “No.” He tosses the discarded clothing toward George’s face, who reflexively scrunches up before getting smacked with his simple white tunic. Dream grins smugly to himself, hands slotted onto his hips. 

George sighs dismissively, as if he’s tired of Dreams antics. Which he isn’t, and Dream can sense the small little smile he represses. 

One point to him.

\--

George’s eyes flutter with confusion as he registers, halfway across the castle, that Dream’s quietly leading him to the kitchen.

Emphasis on quietly.

The staff hardly turn to them, Dream’s hand slotted gently against his wrist as he half _encourages_ him to follow him. It’s when they round into the kitchens that he realises his intention, and a small, playful frown encompasses his face as Dream’s grin only serves to get wider. Reaching his eyes, crinkles the edges at the corner. 

“Cooking. You want to teach me how to cook.”

Dream laughs. “Yes. I thought it’d be fun.”

George scoffs. “You’re going to regret that idea.”

\--

Noon. There is one place in the entire castle Dream has yet to visit: the library.

He vaguely recalls stories from his childhood of how tall the shelves climbed and how venerable the spine of the books was. The dust you could blow away as you opened a cover that hasn’t seen the sun in years or more.

It’s safe to say, not what Dream expected.

George shoots a glance at him as he walks inside, placing a few quiet thoughts in the air between them as he directs his hand around the library.

It’s certainly tall, with an ornate glass dome ceiling filtering in sunlight. Plants climb up the walls, tendrils of flowers encircling every last crevice. It smelled like crushes cocoa beans, with the hint of sugar lingering in the air.

“I used to spend my mornings here,” George fondly remarks, sliding into a seat he seems friendly with. Amicably, Dream sits down in a chair also worth dust or 6. He watches George’s eyes linger across the bookshelves that indeed climbed to the sky, and the tomes that filled every nook and cranny of wooden shelves, decrepit in age but holding the knowledge of a million men and thousands of years.

Dream’s eyes glaze over the worlds held here, consider the possibilities, and let the rush of excitement flood him than die down slowly like a tidal wave.

Warmth encompasses his chilled bones, and he glances a wary smile at George.

“Mother always told me how quickly I’d skim through books-- she called it inhumane.”

His smile drops. Dream’s eyes linger on the little point of George’s ears, the quiet colour of his eyes, the supple line of his jaw. 

_Inhumane. Humane._

Dream frowns similarly. 

“I have a question,” He idly remarks. George hums. “When Sapnap and I-- that one time in the town’s library-”

George cuts him off. “You want to know if I’m all human, as I say I am?”

Dream nods, and though George isn’t facing him, he sighs in defeat nonetheless. His shoulders, rigid and tense, drop back down. 

“It’s-- complicated. My heritage is complicated.”

Dream bites his inner cheek, shuffles in his seat. There’s a certain coolness to his tone, and Dream briefly wonders if he’s stepped past his line of duty. 

He doesn’t know the proper response to that, so he sits quietly.

Patiently, George begins. 

“My mother was infertile. She could not have children no matter how hard she tried. My father, who had gone through multiple wives with less success, sought to bring in. Er. Other means.”

Dream blinks. “They couldn’t have adopted?”

George shakes his head. “Father insisted his child had his blood. -- So he unknowingly got an elven woman pregnant.” His eyes set the sadness in his tone farther past the peak. 

“He wouldn’t have taken me in if I wasn’t a boy.” He whispers.

Dream opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. “My mother wanted a daughter, too. This time he got a human woman pregnant. Took her child, estranged her from her child.”

Dream’s shoulders feel heavy, like a knot stretched thin and tight. “I’m- I don’t know what to say.”

George smiles with his eyes, sadly. “Nobody ever does.”

“Is your birth mother…?”

“Dead. Pneumonia a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

George looks away, tearing his gaze from the painful reminders of his past. How he’d be left to starve only because of his genitals. Because of the fragments of different concentrations in his blood. “Don’t be.”

Dream stares at the back of his head for a long time, watches his fingers as he slides off his crown, holds it gently in his hands. He glances back to Dream, debates something in his eyes. Something unspoken, unable to communicate, then turns back to the rest of the library. 

“Does that mean you can like, manipulate stuff telepathically?”

George snorts, despite the depressing mood being instantly lifted from the air as he swirls back around. “I’m like a quarter elf, Dream. I can hardly contain a mental link with you.”

“A what now?”

George’s face freezes in a half-smile. “Uh.”

Dream’s face breaks out into one of disbelief, light disbelief as he chuckles nervously. “So the daydreams..?”

George scoffs and shrugs. “I don’t know, I have a few theories that maybe some elvan ancestry of mine allowed telepathic transference between you and I in the form of these daydreams.”

Dream furrows his eyebrows. “But the daydreams run in my family?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m confused about.”

Nevermind the fact George knew about his family’s history, Dream slouches back into the chair minutely. Crosses his arms, adopts a thinking face.

“I’ll have to ask Phil.”

_Philz̵͖̜͌a̴͓͒ doẹ̷̏̒s̶͇̈́n’t wan ̵͖̀t̵̟̮̓o̶͈͚͆ ̸͒ͅͅŗ̷͒e̵̚͝ͅċ̵͎̉ive a letter f̶̱̔̚r̶͎͐o̷͇͕͘m̶͕͆͊ ̸̤͗y̶͚͘ȏ̶̰̈u̷̗̮͂ ̵̛̯̯ṟ̶͂̈́i̷̢̟͠g̷̼͙̾ḥ̶̎t now._

“Something tells me he won’t be very helpful.” George remarks, quietly.

Dream nods. “Yeah.” Then casts his gaze away, line hooking onto a fish in a pond. “Let’s get out of here, anyways.” The deep-rooted feeling settles into the pit of his stomach. Cancerous, it feeds off his fear. 

George nods and follows, wordlessly. 

The day passes, Dream writes to Phil with no word. The sun dips past the horizon, and the day is gone. 

\--

Midnight. Long after the velvet dip of sun under the horizon, long after Dreams fallen asleep. 

George drowns under a tidal wave of nightmares. 

He draws a shaky breath in and out, hands clasping tightly to his shaken face and his eyes clenching shut. Nose crinkled, hands clawing at something to grip him down onto this bed, into this world, keep him from floating away into nothingness like he knew he would one day.

Blue. Too much blue, too much blue.

George brushes a hair from his face, the strand immediately swishing back into the view from the corner of his eyes, quivering frown curling his lips and sore eyes bloodshot and tired, unfocused, helpless. His nose scrunches and teeth bite his lower lip with enough intensity to dip into the skin and slice it open, a small pool of blood curdling his senses and slithering down his chin. 

George swallows thickly, legs crossed and body rocking back and forth. Sobs rub the back of his throat raw, sorely making his way back onto the tip of his tongue and clinging to the roof of his mouth. Pathetic whimpers, pathetic, stupid fucking whimpers.

George buries his face in his hands, dropping his head down and letting out a wrecked moan of pain, helplessness clawing at his brain and sinking its fingernails deep into the sensitive area where emotion met logic. 

His eyelids feel heavy, too heavy. His eyebrows pushed sore and numb, clenched together so tight. Cheeks wet with sticky tear residue, once a slithering hot and now a bristling cool against the breeze streaming in through the curtains. 

George curls in on himself, a feeling of dread and bile biting at him and gently wrapping their hands around his throat, squeezing tightly. Claws digging into the back of his skin, sharpened claws slicing and drawing blood from his nerves as he choked out, crying for help weakly, softly, limply.

His insides twist and turn, churning. George feels the gentle light of the moon on his back, the weighted light compared to the heavy feeling of uselessness dragging him down.

He feels alone, lonely. 

Another choked sob, another broken tear and Dream lifts himself from the bed. He doesn’t even hesitate in the dimly lit room, half asleep, seeing the sight of the waned blue surrounding George replaced with a deep, offset noir, seeming to drown him under a tidal wave.

George didn’t move, didn’t shuffle, held back a half sob as another body dipped into the corner of the mattress near him, gently on his knees and squirming up to him, warm arms wrapping around his middle. George only shifts and moves to sit on Dream’s lap, legs straddling his hips as Dream gently rubs a random pattern with his finger on George’s back. 

George only muffles his tires sobs into his shoulder, weakened hands dropping to his lap and clawing at the back of Dream's shirt feebly. Sleepy tears fall from his clenched eyes and into his shoulder, but Dream doesn’t say or do anything but gently wrap his arms around George and rock him back and forth, long, nimble fingers rubbing a soft pattern into George's back, chin tilted down slightly and eyes gently shut. 

A slow, quiet hum of a melody dips in the air, rumbles and smoothes from the bottom of Dream's throat. Random notes strung together to sound a beautiful melody in the air. Notes that wrap it's comforting arms around George as he shudders and quivers, feeling the weight of the world claw at him to drag him down. Dream only holds him tighter, rocking slowly and carefully as he holds the fragile boy in his arms and lets him stain his shirt with his mutes tears. 

The light dim under the starlight, creasing the corners of Dream’s eyes as he gently opens them once more, the boy going soft and limp in his arms. Dream let his head rest on the others shoulder, still rubbing a finger up and down his spine quietly. 

George's hands drop from the death grip on his shirt, hands shaking from pent up energy and his face buries into the crook of Dream’s neck as if it would hide him away from the fears of the world. Dream only drags a hand up to the bottom of George's neck, sliding up his neck and gently running a hand through his hair, thumb rolling in circles idly.

Dream continues humming, warmly holding the cold boy in his arms, dim blue aura fading back into the sleepish grey around the two men. Dream just held him close, not saying anything or judging. He holds George close, letting him know he was here. 

“I love you,” Dream mumbles into his lover’s shoulder, voice a soft orange creasing into the beautiful yellow of tired love. 

George says nothing, but nuzzles his head closer to Dream’s, grumbling a mutes displeasure when he couldn’t. Dream only giggles quietly, voice dripping into an orange that seems to roll off and sink into George, sleepish yawns mumbles into his neck. 

Dream gently peels himself from George, slowly ungluing himself from his lover’s shoulder to look him in the eyes weakly. Dream lets his eyes wander the tortured boy's face, a fond gaze softening his eyes as the bags drip George's eyes down. He gently wraps his arms around the small of his back, lacing his fingers together and shutting his eyes back, leaning in for a soft peck on the lips. George smiles delicately against his lips, hands moving to cups his jaw and leaning in for another. 

Dream involuntarily lets a gentle smile crease his lips as he tilts his nose to let the boy gently adjust himself on his lap, feet planted underneath himself and moving to get a better angle from above. Dream didn’t mind, folding his eyelids shut and letting his hands move to George's hips to embrace the short-lives yet giddy warmth that tickles his bones. Pliant, unrelenting, soothing. Beautiful, home.

Happy, he felt happy here. Both of them, in each other’s arms. They felt happy. No judgement could pierce this, nothing could ruin this.

It was perfect.

George pulls away and slid off Dream’s lap, collapsing onto the bed behind him, frail smile liquid on his lips and melting Dream’s insides, making him feel gooey and slushy on the inside as he moves to gently rest his elbows on the other sides of his lovers face, languid smile making his cheeks sore and dusts pink like he was still a young squire in love with the idea of a princess to save.

Dream pecks George on the lips again, resting there for a moment with a homey kiss planted to the other's lips before pulling away and staring at his lover.

It was obvious, his eyes still red and puffy and tears still staining his cheeks, but his smile was genuine and the creases in the corner of his eyes made it all worth it, in the end. Tires eyelid fluttering over the bottom lid, lashes brushing each other, punctuated by a syrupy laugh drawn from both boys. 

Dream rolls onto the side beside George as his lover turns to face him. Lover, loved. Love. Dream would never get tired of using that word. George smiles, sweet like sugar. He lets his eyes drip close as he shifts closer, slinging both arms around Dream's neck, body press into his. Dream shuffles closer as well, arms wrapping around his middle and resting his head onto his shoulder.

It was quiet, and as the lights dimly flicker out, both felt at peace, resting. Easier to sleep, not alone. Light pink, beautiful. Quiet, lovely.

George wasn’t alone, he wasn’t worthless.

\--

Dawn. His feet place against the ground, shifting against the tiles of the tower. The rock cracks beneath the pressure of his boots, but he climbs nonetheless. When his hand slips onto the windowsill, he heaves himself up with the remaining effort he has left in him and flops into the corridor unceremoniously.

Dream catches his breath a moment, the quiet chirps of crickets at the bottom of the tower hum the midnight tune they always do.

Dream pushes himself to his wobbling feet, the unsteady ground aligning itself to his personal gravity as he moves. The carpet slides under his shoes, and he rounds the corner gracefully. In a sense, the castle is like a second home.

He drags his hand against the cobblestone wall, tracing its outline as his feet direct the way to the throne room. Whatever the intention was for going towards the throne room was incoherent now, drowned out by the silence of the air around him.

He rounds the corner again.

The dining hall is long, stretched to the end of his vision. Even more so when he was a child. The throne sits in the back, with the queen's throne and the children’s thrones positioned by the King's throne.

Golden, velvet. It pops out against the green-brown of the castle. Against the plants, it is a sign of luxury, of hierarchy.

George stands before the stairs towards it, stares at it longingly, yet dismissively.

Dream stands at the end of the corridor quietly. He slips the mask off his face, lets it clatter onto the ground with a rattling sound.

George only half moves to turn to face him, his eyes beckoning him over. Struck, Dream follows the red carpet towards the end.

George’s hands are neatly clasped behind his back. Everything seems clipped, only coming in soft melodies that cut short at the end. 

“I always wondered- what it’d be like to sit on that throne.” George remarks, with the faintest hint of remorse hidden behind long pronounced syllables. 

“Is it comfortable?” Dream asks.

George lets the smallest grin split his cheeks, even if only a little as he stares at the golden etchings. A lion at the top, carved gracefully into the golden metal.

It looks stupid. George agrees, silently. 

“No.” He answers, honestly. 

Dream nods his understanding, shooting a glance at his side. George’s stoic expression falters under the weight of Dream’s gaze, then softens into something more natural. Something less clipped. His shoulders loosen with the grief of the dead, turning his body towards him.

Their eyes lock, if only for a second at best, and George’s fingers slip against his bangs. He pushes the hair out of his eyes, reaches for the metal atop his head. The intricately carved crown, with carvings, etched into gold and silver rounding it like vines.

Like his mother and father. With a blue diamond encrusted in the middle, and a few green gems on the side. 

He takes the crown and places it atop Dream’s head carefully, having to stretch onto the tips of his toes, to which Dream bows graciously.

George sits back down on his heels, studies Dream’s confused face for a moment, then smiles longingly. Tiredly.

“The crown,” George reaffirms, “It suits you.”

“...George?” Dream swallows past the lump in his throat, words dying on his tongue.

“Yes,” George grins, “Your highness?”

Words wither on the tip of Dream’s consciousness, and for once he doesn’t want to find them. Somehow, this was better than any words he, as a poet, could condemn into his life.

Dream’s fingers reach up to trace the lining of the crown. Each etching speaks of George more and more, and you can feel the places where George himself has traced the lines millions of times over. Softened edges, worn by the thumb trail of a grieving human.

George watches his eyes, the worn age of duty creasing past his eyelids.

“You have to promise, Dream,” He whispers. “To stay.”

Dream’s mouth dries, and he stares for a long while at George’s face. “I’m not going anywhere, George.” George, George George 

_George._

George looks at him, with something akin to disbelief, then relieves his shoulders of the tension they pulled. He quietly reaches for Dream’s hand, drags it to his face, kisses the palm of it.

“Swear on it.”

Dream laughs, mutely, and places his other hand on George’s jaw. He traces the line of the skin he thought he’d never touch with such need, with such longing sometimes he forgets there was ever a time without him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His head leaned forwards for the slightest movement. Eyes slid closed and lips brushing teasingly against each other, George smiled stupidly against Dream’s lips, letting his mouth fall agape for a moment to let the boy shift closer to him. 

If you asked either of them, both wouldn’t be able to tell you the way their soft skin moved against each other and the milky white stars illuminating them. 

Their lips brushed each other, softly and delicately like butterfly wings, just long enough that they could taste the other’s breath, feel the warmth on their skin. Then it’d be the way they moved, inched closer to taste the other better, feel the satisfying ‘mm’ leave their mouth, send vibrations down your spine because god you just love them so much.

George involuntarily leaned it, feeling his lips soften against the other man’s as he tilted his nose, pressing into his cheek and feeling the way Dream’s eyelashes fluttered, brushing his skin faintly. Soft and uncertain, tender. Dream leaned away for a second of air, mouth sucking air back in as George shifted closer to bridge the gap again. Never wanting to let go as he felt the warm hand on his jaw worm to his neck.

And as Dream pulled away, with a soft smile plastered onto his face, he smiled. He smiled stupidly and lightly, and George joined in and rested his head on his chest for a moment before collapsing into his arms.

Dream’s fingers laced through the bottom of George’s hairline, tickling and playing with the baby hairs by the nape of his neck and feeling warm and safe against him.

He smiled.

Then he frowned. 

The temperature in the room plummets, quicker than it rose from before. The breeze sweeps in through the open windows, howls in his ears, screaming words of nothingness.

Then Dream realises there’s no presence in his arms, nothing but air and dust. The room dims, the candlelight flicks. The flame presses against the wind, hold onto the candle in hopes it won't blow away.

Then the candle sniffles out. 

Dream has to reel himself back in, watch the terse way the dining tables are as empty as ever, but there’s a sort of hollow presence. No longer left in privacy but in complete isolation.

A gentle metal presses into the palm of Dream’s hand. He swipes his eyes down, cool gold held tightly in his palm as it hangs down, pulled towards the earth by its gravity. 

The candles flicker, the flame dies. There’s a hollow silence where they should be the sound of George’s quiet laughter. George’s fragile smile.

Dream freezes, he’s frozen. Stuck in the limbo of holding the crown and feeling the dull ache of the room.

He shifts and quietly realises the candles were never there. They never were alight. Snuffed so many years ago, they never flickered with life. 

If he strains his ears, maybe he can hear the echo of a fair maiden, but the void of silence swallows it like the rest. It dims, then dies. Like the powder on the tables, rotting with old age. The vines climb above him, reaching for the darkened night sky.

He’s slowly thrust with the memory that George is gone. That he’s left. That he’s looked him right in the eyes and said _You were never enough._ Dream’s knees buckle, the part where his bones conjoin aches too greatly and so he falls to the ground.

There’s a sort of ripping desire, in his heart. 

Oxygen drags its sharp, unclean nails as it leaves his lungs. Ripped, snatched, it claws as it leaves, scarring the tissue and regret washing the dampen mind. Every second, every minute is another painful regret. Is another blink held too long. Is another trump of a heart that squeezes remnants of dried, dead blood. Every movement sends a symphony of wailing dances across his vulnerable flesh.

Blurred past the tears, past the pain.

He presses his lips gently, ever so fondly into the metal. Holds them there and clenches his eyebrows and waits for something to happen. Tears break the years of mulled composure, past the pain of long lives past. Past the wants, he’ll never receive, the home that never was. Like an acid lake, his lungs begin to boil away first, gasping for air.

“George… George,”

He kissed the metal softly, there’s a soft presence of water smothering down his face, ripping his skin past the solar flares of his heart.

“Please,” he pleads. 

Muted cries muffled the air, pleads that would never be returned.

He’s gone.

\--

Morning.

Dream shoots up, scrambles out of the bed. His sweat is cold against his skin, screaming for him to move as he looks around the room. It’s dark, pitch black. There’s no warmth pressed into his side.

And when he scrambles out of the room-- not bothering to put on boots or socks-- he doesn’t know why he expects George to be there.

Why he expects the throne to not be empty, for the crown to not hang there. For no trace of George to be left, even in the garden.

He doesn’t know why he expected to not be left alone.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i hate this chapter as per usual. this is a /srs this is a terrible chapter help.  
> plot? flowing? writing fluff for once in my life? disgusting  
> \--  
> ok look i know its been like 90 years shush. i took time to just write all of hiraeth so i'd stop being stressed fridays writing 5k words before saturday. tags will still be updated as i update, as to not spoil anything immediately. also we're updating the 12th chapter of hiraeth on the 12th week of it being out. nice.  
> as you can see there'll be 18 chapters total, but i might post a masterpost to clear up just... everything that everyone is confused on at the end lol. if you have any questions you'd like me to answer in that, comment them or go to my twt and i'll be happy to do so.  
> \--  
> aaanyways, you know the drill, twt is @raytick4 and thank you everyone for everything :)  
> i'll see you next saturday at 2:32 am for my weekly update, peace


	13. [Delirium]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the reluctance to take the throne will eventually be your downfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter this week lol, more an interlude than anything really. consider it the dream interlude (tm)

\--

Cool metal bristles his fingertips. Dream reluctantly drags a numbed hand against the brisk cool of gold, settled in front of the throne. His feet plant into the carpet beneath him, his eyes strung to his fingers as he feels the weight of his actions drag against his skin.

“You’re sick, you know.” 

Dream’s eyelids flutter closed for a second, breathe in the air that chokes him and pries his eyelids open. He flicks his eyes downwards, watches his feet with intense curiosity.

“You’re one to talk.”

George audibly swallows, leans back against the dining table nearest to the throne. His back tips against the wood and he crosses his legs and arms. Leans forwards on the balls of his feet casually.

Dream sighs, a lace of exhaustion flooding his hyper-aware mind. “Where are you?”

George winces. “I wish I could say.” 

Dream’s heel clicks against the ground when he turns, watches George’s eyes scan him for a second, then trails back up his form. Smoothly. Slowly. He’s still wearing the same thing from yesterday, but a few tears in his clothing drag against his shirt. His face is worn, broken.

He can’t concentrate-- can’t see where the dust on his nose could be from. Can’t see where the light in his eyes limped off to. Can’t find what ripped his shirt.

He’s too tired to even try to scan him for any clues, any ideas.

See. See him.

“Is someone holding you hostage?”

George licks his lips. “You should know better, Dream, than to trust a daydream.”

Dream kisses his teeth and purses his lips. His tongue swipes to clean his lower lip, And again. And again. 

They’re going to crack.

So is he, he bitterly remarks. 

“There’s some-- some part of you that’s real.”

“And how are you supposed to know which part of me is real and which part is fake?”

“Please, George,” He asks. Begs. “Don’t play games with me, not right now.”

George bites his inner cheek. “I am only what you perceive me as.”

Dream’s eyes flick over his clothing. “No.”

“No?”

“That’s not-- that’s not entirely true. You’re still alive-- which is why you’re still here.”

George hums and thins his lips. “I wish I could help. I do.”

Dream looks to the side, feels his heart string against his ribcage. The silence is palatable. He can taste every string, every line of it. The highs and lows of the drug.

“But I can’t. I’m sorry, Clay. You’re on your own.”

\--

Dream’s still idling by the throne when Sapnap’s footsteps echo against the hollowed room. They clatter off the walls, reaching Dream’s ears briefly. He averts his gaze over his shoulder slowly, glances back, then wills his body to follow so he can watch Sapnap with glazed eyes. With brittle strength.

“I heard what happened,” Sapnap starts, catching his breath through weak, intermixed puffs of air. 

“Who?” He asks, quietly. “Karl?”

Sapnap opens his mouth as if to correct him, then closes it. “Yeah.”

He hums under his breath. Minor key, drenched in sorrow. Never seen on the face of the guilty, but always heard-- someone once told him.

Dream swallows. Sapnap watches his face carefully.

“I’m sorry,” he pleads, walking up the steps to the throne. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t apologise,” Dream whispers, drags his feet backwards. “You didn’t do it.”

_Did you?_

Sapnap quirks his head, ever so slightly. Gente tilt. It could mean confusion, or intrigue. George does it when he’s tapped into Dream’s conversation.

He turns away. 

\--

The cabinet room is quiet. It’s much too quiet. The sounds of occasional heavy breaths clutter off the walls, bouncing past the cobblestone and onto the table.

The elephant in the room, his mother described it as once. 

Dream sits, quietly, among the table. It’s strange, sitting in George’s chair. The chair doesn’t wrap around his form, it’s too small. He hardly fits. So he sits, on the edge of his seat, with his arms pressed into the table and his eyes glued to the wood with the weight of a thousand unspoken words. 

Everyone’s eyes hold him down, anchor to sea, ship, shipwrecked.

Dream breathes.

“I… don’t want to repeat myself.” He mutters, quietly. “So I hope you all know that-- That,”

A few words in and he already splices his sentences, chops them up and butchers all hope for a normal meeting.

This was anything but a normal meeting, it was irrational to think otherwise. Do otherwise. Say otherwise.

“George is gone,” he explains. “Not dead, but gone.”

He doesn’t elaborate on how he knows. Nobody asks.

“He disappeared sometime between last night and this morning. As his-- As his second in command,” He clears his throat of the bile accumulating, “I will… run. For him. My orders are to be followed, is that clear?”

Everyone nods, albeit a few do so hesitantly. Bad shoots him a glance. He shoots one back.

Dipping his head, he bows respectfully in the memory of George, then lifts his sunken eyes again. “I want every--” He clears his throat again “Every one of your best men looking for him. Is that clear?”

Again, subtle nods.

“Good.”

A silence.

“Do we tell the people?” Ant asks-- tentatively. Dream frowns.

“No.”

Limply, the question stands still. Eventually, they might. If George does not return-- _He will, he has to. His daydream is still with me. He’s alive. He has to be--_ someone will have to tell. Someone will have to take the throne.

Timid sets upon sets of eyes look towards Dream for guidance. 

_“What do you plan to do, as King?” Dream treads lightly._

_George hesitates for a moment. “I don't know honestly,” He replies frankly. “I’ve spent so many years thinking about what I’d do, but now that I have the crown on my head and people call me king, I have no idea.”_

_He knows what he’d do as King, he has a few ideas lingering in the back of his mind that maybe he could try and persuade George to get along with. But he’s not the king, he’d never understand._

_“It just sprung on me so quick, I- I'm still processing. I suppose my goal is to just be the best I can for my people.”_

_“What does that mean to you?”_

_George blinks for a moment, hooded eyes showcasing his tiredness but he still puts thought into it. “No conflict,” He replies honestly, after a few moments of staring Dream down with soft, purified eyes turning darker with sin by the day._

It was his position now. 

Dream blinks, gulps down his fears, then addresses the room again. “I need to speak with George’s sister. Where is she?”

Nobody spoke, for just a moment in time. 

Eventually, Bad stands up, clears his throat. “She’s-- She’s in Snowchester. Has been for the last few months.”

 _George never told me._ The thought strikes him quietly, quickly, leaves the bloody mess to dry for itself as the impact settles rapidly. 

“Get a letter to her. Request her presence at the castle immediately.”

Everyone looks between themselves as if withholding a huge secret from him.

“Yes sir,” Someone eventually complies, leaves the room. 

Dream looks to Velvet, locks eyes with the normally springing boy who’s settled solemnly in his seat today. “Velvet, I need an update on our supplies-- food, weapons, men.”

“Yes sir,”

“General, I need a moment to discuss our battle plans.”

“Yes sir,”

“Sapnap, I--” He looks around the room. “Right. Bad?”

“Hm?”

“Stay behind, a second. Get Karl.”

Dream files his eyes back to the rest of the cabinet. “Dismissed.”

\--

_Ache in your stomach, like a full press souring your internal organs. You feel down, you feel the weight of life’s heel pressing into your stomach. Everything is sour, your body feels sour. The best word for it is sour. Your muscles clench, your throat closes at the front. Moves, swallows past the drip._

_It’s quiet, it’s dark. You can’t recognise your face in the mirror. Your skin, your eyes. They’re not yours. Not really. Stolen._

_Your future looks bleak, and yet here you sit. Stand. Grip onto the sink. Hang your head down in anticipation. For what? The cool metal against the back of your neck? The anticipation of something bad?_

_The lack of light— they’re calling it darkness now, aren’t they?— swallows you whole._

_They’ve got it all wrong— you’re not afraid of the dark. No, you love it. You love the prospect of adventure. You miss it. It’s what grapples you, isn't it?_

_Life’s, love's, hate's phantom hands, drag their nails across you, dig the heels of their palms into your back. Caress your face. Feel the fingers, you know they aren’t real but they feel real. Tilt your chin up. drag against your face. Love, life, hate, all the same thing. You know then that you’re meant to do something great. Something extraordinary._

_Wake up._

\--

Dream fidgets with the bone mask, pulling it just an inch from his face and exhaling slowly, letting his breath puncture past his lungs. 

Bad stands by the table, his voice raw and torn. He clears his throat an excessive amount of times. It’s annoying. Dream sits up in his chair briefly, watches him with careful eyes, then releases the tension in his shoulder. Releasing a breath trapped in the cage of his throat, a prison cell he didn’t realise he had.

Sapnap strolls in. Less a stroll but a sombre walk. His posture is stiff as he too clears the bitter resentment for the situation from his throat.

Dream shifts uncomfortably in a seat that isn’t his-- will never be his. Sapnap takes a seat. So does Bad, again.

Dream rests his chin on his clenched fists. His eyes flick closed, inhales a deep breath, then opens them again as he moves to stare at Sapnap at Bad. At George, who’s perched at the seat opposite to his, on the other side of the table.

Bad glances at him, George shakes his head.

“Dream-”

“Don’t. That’s not him.”

Bad retracts back into himself quietly. Sapnap breathes through his nose and leans forwards.

“Dream,” Sapnap whispers, as if anything above the slightest raise would break something. Break him. Treat him like a fragile object.

To be fair to himself, Dream is brittle. Teetering on the edge of collapsing. 

“-We have to consider the-”

“Sorry, repeat that,” Dream murmurs. “I zoned out.”

Sapnap gulps down his worries. Age wears into the furrow of his brow, despite him still being so young. 

“We have to entertain the possibility that we might...'' Sapnap goes quiet, shares a timid look with Bad. “We might not find George.”

Dream’s breathing slowly tears into ragged, blinking back the unshed words of his body. “We will find him-- we have our best men out looking for--”

“Your best men, Dream.” Bad entertains, quietly. The edge in his face, the quiet draw of his brow. “You are in charge right now.”

“For now.”

“Possibly longer,” Sapnap says, after the pause in the air stretches a few too moments too long.

“We will find him.”

Bad licks his lips, turns to fake George, who’s wearing the same expression of worry as the other two. It’s masked, disguising the halted emotions of his real counterpart. 

Dream licks his lower lip. “We will.”

Sapnap’s eyes flick to Dream’s, then flick downwards. In no mood to fight.

“Dream,” George finally finds the courage to speak. “My counterpart will-- he would want you to take the throne for him.” 

Dream sucks in a breath but doesn’t let it back out. “Is that the truthful part of you speaking?”

George’s lip quivers, turns downwards with the solemn nod of a respectful bow. Acknowledge the gone, the taken, the stolen lives. His eyes drag back up agonisingly and he nods slowly at Dream. “Yes.” 

The silence hangs its head heavily.

Dream swipes a hand over his face, and he knows the tears pull at his eyes, but he refuses to cry. Despite his own personal vulnerabilities, he keeps his back pressed into his chair and his hands as steady as he can

His hand sits, shaking with the fear of everything, twitching externally to numb the ease of onslaught words internally. 

“...Dream?” George calls from the other side of the table. Dream, staring through a dull screen of empty tears, says nothing in return. He knows his voice would break if he dared try to say anything. It’s best to keep quiet.

It only makes the situation worse, letting time flow past him despite his boisterous, in the moment personality.

“I- I’m sorry,” he stutters, unlike himself. The stutter that was wholeheartedly his heart lying in a bloody mess on the table. He sees the blood pool and drip around the creases of the wood, dripping into cracks and sliding down the desk. It’s hardly beating, gasping for air.

“Dream I’m-” Sapnap starts, starts with an awkward breath. “You can’t dwell on it forever.”

_His father shakes his head, slowly. “It’s comforting, to be able to talk to them as they come and go, but you find,” he breathes, “Your life ties to the thought of them. And once they’re gone, they’re gone.”_

“Once they’re gone, they’re gone.”

The words ring in his ears pitifully, his grip on himself is tight, yet shivering. His fingers numbly swipe across his skin, and he can feel the broken emotions he’s left in his wake.

Only the sound of his breathing echoes now, the whirring of his mind and the sparse birds that fly this close to the castle. 

Dream always considered himself wise with words, fond and elegant and precise in the ways he knew how to weave together a sentence with grace to express emotions. He knows how to arrange letters in a way to leave the reader feeling something.

Real-life is anything but graceful. It’s a pitfall of emotions that leave you drained and simplistic in style. They give shape to a day full of nothing. 

His heartbeat rings through his chest slowly, a lub-dub so painfully slow. He feels the way the blood pumps from his heart tightly, and how it warms his chilled body. His fingertips are red, lack of heat turning his body into a shivering pool of insecurities.

Days are dreary, cloudy skies littering through troubled times. He tucks his chin further to his chest, dried tears sticking to his face in painful reminder. 

It’s such a hollow feeling, not being able to tell someone how much you care about them. Then they’re gone. The most painful thing, when you care more about someone than they’ll ever care about you. 

A nap sounds delightful, Dream grumbles through his raw throat, pressing images of a delicate laugh and pretty little smiles that gnaw at his chest so utterly painfully. They tell you to love is beautiful, but they don’t tell you how you can sit for hours on end, watching them laugh and feel the hole digging at your heart. Physically feel the torment bubble in your chest like a soda about to explode.

It’s never sharp or dull, the feeling is tight as your body pushes away from the knife that digs into your flesh. He wants to cry and claw and rip at everything that pulls him into a dull sense of safety as a child does. He wants to revert back to his instincts which told him to back away from the start.

He swallows, despite himself, rights himself in his chair. Unaware of how long he sat there, processing Sapnap’s words. 

“I think that this meeting is dismissed.”

Everyone glances at him. Sapnap blinks wearily, waits for him to call that statement off. He knows he needs it, Sapnap knows it too. 

A knock, the residual tick up of his eyes, the raw emotions left his throat.

“Sir,” the man in the doorway starts, having pushed open the door. He’s breathing, ran this way? Maybe. Urgent letter. A single letter in his hands.

“Sir, it’s from your father.”

_Dream,_

Dream sputters over his words, feels the eyes on him linger. “Read it aloud.”

_They took Caroline._

“Sir--”

“Aloud.”

_Men in blue-- 4 of them. Last night._

”...Okay.”

_Find her. Please._

The words on the messenger's lips feel heavier than the world around him at the moment, feeding into the growing desire to run. To feel the wind pounding against his back as he runs, feet screaming against the pavement. 

He breathes, tries to stabilise the world collapsing around him.

“Out,” He whispers. “I want everyone out, right now,”

Bad leans in, slightly. “But--”

“I said OUT!”

Everyone goes quiet. Sapnap spares him a glance, then trods out the room. His feet place against the steps leading out as he closes the door behind him. 

The room is silent.

“They took my sister,” Dream whispers, after a quiet moment. Waits for the inevitable pain to crash onto him. Like water, with enough force to feel like iron bars digging into his skin.

_The first thing about it all is fear. It’s always this crippling fear that swirls around your tongue and pierces your lung like popping a balloon._

“Why would they take your sister?” George inquires, tiptoeing on thin ice. 

_It’s suffocating, inflaming, infuriating, and frightening. Your gut is twisted into knots and your mouth is so dry you can taste the moisture of the air on your tongue._

“To get to you,” Dream concludes. “They get to me, get to you.”

_Then there’s the numbing pain, where you sit dryly across your bed, staring at a blank wall and feel your eyes unfocus. Unstick, too fidgety, they can't sit anywhere. Your hands are clawing at your arms and there’s sure to be scratches and you’re numb._

“But I’m not here.” George fits the rest of the sentence for him. States matter of factly. 

_There’s no anxiety, there's no nervousness, just numb. Just shut down, letting your body move on autopilot while you sit back in your driver's seat in your mind, watching it all from a perspective not tied to yours._

“So, that means,” Dream drags, slides the paper against the table, still keeping his voice at a tone where nobody could hear the cracks in his voice. Hear the way his world slowly drags away from underneath his feet. 

Lose his balance.

_You feel the tidal wave of emotions, and they fight in your brain to control you in the place of yourself and you feel cold. You feel so cold, and alone. There’s ice pricking at your skin and at your thoughts, and all you can do is stay wrapped up in your arms, rocking back and forth and hoping it’ll stop soon._

“They don’t have me.”

That the darkness biting your mind will wither away soon.

“So who does?” He whispers into nothingness.

 _I want to love you but I don’t know how._ Crash, the tidal wave splashes against his exposed skin. Dream shrivels, curls up. Instinctively, you can’t fight water. You can’t fight a liquid. 

“I don’t know, Dream.”

\--

The cold steel pricks him through his clothing. Dream fidgets, doesn’t feel right. With the crown on his head, with the seat in front of him his until otherwise noted. 

He fidgets, twirls his fingers in a loop.

“Sit down.” George asks, less than commands. “It’s yours. You need to at least act like it.”

“Until when, George?” He pleads. “Until they find your body?”

George swallows and watches him with the dulled fire of his eyes. “No.”

He sees it in his eyes that he doesn’t believe it.

“It’s going to be okay,”

“No. No it won’t.”

Pause.

“No.” George breathes. “It hardly ever is.”

Dream stares at the chair for just a moment. A week, no results. A week, more attacks. For a week he’s been sleeping alone.

“Sit.”

Dream slides his fingers against the metal as if he hasn’t heard him, ignoring him.

He drags his body towards the seat, turns and sits down. The most force he’s ever had to take. The weight on his head feels fraudulent, he feels fraudulent.

_“Traitor!” One screams._

Tears break past his eyes, and he curls into himself. One knee, muffling the sobs of his face as he sits in a room full of empty subjects. Weightless wonders.

_“Traitor,” Whispers George._

The room echoes in silence. 

Alone.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> art time  
> https://twitter.com/twopuppp/status/1345864989932990466?s=21 and https://twitter.com/ahintofbullshit/status/1361333414658379779 thank you for such the lovely art :) i forgot to post the first one earlier but i'm doing it now LOL go check these people out they're both incredible artists :)  
>   
> surprisingly, for once in my life, im ok with this chapter wow  
> hello :) i don't have a whole lot to say this time around other than don't harass creators, my twt is @raytick4 so come scream at me there, and peace. thanks ^^ cya next week
> 
> edit 1: just realised ao3 is an asshole and removes all my underlines Sighs


	14. [Anagapesis]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> philza is less than cooperative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the (short) dream interlude

\--

“Phil,” Dream’s breath comes out in heaved mists, swirling in the air like cold smoke before dissipating back where it came from. The cold of snow dragging its long claws through the hillside of the countryside. Littering the corner of nature’s eyes with softer tears than rain, but colder. 

“Dream,” Phil remarks, surprised in no regard. “What are you doing here?” 

“Can I come in?” He asks, instead of elaborating. Phil, tentatively, nods his head in a simple sure and gestures for him to enter the room. 

Dream sets his feet into the cavern, past the rock doors as they shut. Click back together as the earth shifts to make it look like they were never separated. Dream shivers, drags the cloak draped around his shoulder away and shakes it by the entrance, watching the snow patter off. Stomping his shoes once, twice, he enters the cavern once more.

The ice still hangs from the ceiling, everything still looks as is, except for maybe the small fire at the bottom of the railways, a quiet reminder this used to be a mineshaft hundreds of years ago.

“What brings you here?” Phil asks, tentative trepidation laced into the fibres of his quiet voice. Dream eyes him sideways, then back to the rest of the underground mini ice palace. 

“I need your help.” He says, truthfully, as much as he hates the worlds slipping from his tongue and reaching the cold plaster of air. Like tearing a bandage from skin, but worse. 

Philza merely raises an eyebrow. “In what sense?”

“I-” He breathes, lets the cool air in his lungs settle for a second. “George. It’s about George.”

Phil’s face makes no move to change, Dream knows he’s repressing something. Shock? The opposite?

“He’s been taken-”

“I know,” Phil replies, his eyebrow finally settling back onto his face. 

“You do? We haven’t issued a formal statement-?”

Phil takes a pacing step backwards, then to the side as if to gather his thoughts. “I’m a sorcerer. I know when the air shifts.”

“The air-?”

“Call it rumours. Call it sense.”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand but nods feebly along. 

“So?” Phil remarks, unmoving. 

Dream swallows past his ego and feels his stomach drop. “I need your help locating him. And if you could also explain how him and I have this sort of--  _ mental bond-- _ I don’t know how to explain it it’s--”

“No.” Phil cuts in, crossing his arms.

“...What?”

“I cannot help you.”

Dream blinks. “Phil, you can set out fires, turn natural disasters into butterflies, but you  _ can’t locate George? _ ”

Phil shakes his head. “No.”

He was lying, he had to be. The pent up frustration of the Days Dream had spent mourning the death of someone he didn’t know to be dead leading up here. 

“You’re lying.”

Unremarkably, Phil shakes his head. “I can’t help you. I don’t work with spells on humans. Tracking spells when the soul is gone is, well--”

“I have a mental link with him-- some sort of bond, that could work, surely?”

Phil opens his mouth to say something, contemplates it, then closes it again. He frowns, thins his lips. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Phil,” Dream’s voice turns to the easy stages of desperation. “C’mon man, you have to be able to-- to do  _ something _ !”

Ever unmoving, ever unemotive, Philza’s face stays, shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“Phil--”

“Dream,” Phil states, takes a tentative step forward. “There’s nothing I can do. I don’t want to kick you out but there’s really nothing I can do.”

Dream’s eyes search his face for any hint of a joke, any hint of a lie, anything. There’s desperation burning in his, he knows. Sometimes, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. 

“Phil--”

“Dream,” Phil states, even tones. “Get out of my home.”

“But--”

“Don’t make me force you.”

Dream searches his eyes for any hint of--  _ anything.  _

Nothing.

\--

“Techno--”

“Dream,” Techno drags a hand down his face, not even bothering to face the masked man, “I can’t do shit for George.”

Dream opens his mouth to say something, instead takes a breath. “You have to be able too-- I know you can do something!”

Techno raises an eyebrow as his head turns slowly over his shoulder. Sliding on his heel, swivelling around the wooden floorboards screaming around his feet he clicks his heel. The tap of his foot against the ground, his hair draped around his shoulders as if he just woke up.

Time seemed to be kind of useless anyway. Dawn? Dusk? They look about the same to Dream.

“Dream,” Techno starts with a low parted breath. “There’s nothing I can do for your boy toy. Find someone else to ask for help.” He raises a cautioning eyebrow. “Phil maybe?”

Dream’s lean on his heel dampens, and so does his mood. “I already tried. Asking him, I mean.”

Techno hums. “Then why are you on my doorstep?”

“Because I thought that you could-”

“Just go, it’s too early for this.”

“But--”

The door slams in his face, leaves only the trace of debris in its path.

\--

Morning haze clings to his back, humid summer air twisting in his throat and swirling down his mouth like drugging smoke. Warm, yet rancid. Tasting like glorified cardboard as it whirls around his tongue. 

Dream is left there in the streets, sweat-drenched summer air coating his face, hacking out the warm misty smoke that tickles as it runs down his throat and makes it hard to breathe, hard to see. 

He briefly thinks this is bullshit, and it is, but there’s always the nagging curiosity hiding behind the nick of his brain as to if it has something to do with the blinding green smoke that engulfs his insides and melts his organs away almost teasingly. The not so nice tasting one. The warm one, the half-addicting one. If acid could learn to be slow and painful. 

It tickles Dream’s throat and makes him feel warm, yet cool. Resentful, bitter. Like sucking on a lemon, the instinctive reflex face you make when your eyes crinkle and you frown disgustedly, sour tastes trickling down your lungs. Coats his lungs in false senses and hidden truths. 

He clicks his tongue and cards a hand through his hair, tucking a stray lock behind his ear. He thinks he should cut his hair soon, it’s getting a bit of a hassle. 

Dream’s eyes are sore, and it hurts to blink. To let cool air worm underneath your fake smile and under the heaps of lies that you put on because you’re too vain to not. 

He would hyperfocus on the person he wishes he was-- wish he could be with-- who’s standing right in front of him and taunting him with easy laughs and crinkled smiles. Creases in his voice, Dream’s mind parries back with excuse after excuse but the person in front of him just laughs and parrots his thoughts. 

He thinks it's stupid.

That stupid green acid that dissolves his insides and strips you down to your bare-bones, feeling exposed and worthless in front of a pile of gold he could never amount to. 

And he’d scoff at the stupidity-- the utter ridiculousness that he’d lost so much time just focusing on another person so much better-- so much more perfect than him. Another person who he’d never have. 

His eyes would peruse the world, glazing over in a similar hurt, the constant backlash of not being good enough-- never being good enough. It's a blinding, ugly green light that swirls in the corners of his vision and drowns him in a drunken state; rendering him helpless and to do its bidding.

He falls into a hole, and he forgets that his world isn’t made up entirely of pretty pink cheeks and rosy laughs. Dream is a different individual, but at some point, the lines blur and it all seems wrong, and this whole situation seems stupid.

He feels stupid. 

“Hey,” A soft, parting voice breaks the air. Dream swirls on his heels, sudden adjustment to his balance throwing his coordination through the window for just a second. A brief lapse in judgement. George’s eyes are worn, dragging his eyes down and deep purple blooming underneath them. His face is sunken, his limbs frail. Bone pokes out of thin, pale skin.

Dream swallows. “Please, just tell me where you are.”

“Dream,” George answers honestly, his voice raw and hoarse, terrible in a way that screams a thousand destinations-- where could he be?  “I don’t know.”

Dream purses his lips, thins them underneath his tongue. Mist clings to his back. To the back of his brain. Itchy, never removed.

“I--”

“Save your breath.” George nods. Dream’s fingers sink into the gold of the throne, the molten metal on his head feels artificial as he sits down. Adjusts himself on the throne.

His elbows dig into the flesh of his knees, leaning forwards with his fingers pressed to his mouth.

Staring, emptily down a hallway that should be bursting with people. Wearing a crown that isn’t his and a cape that never suited anyone that wore it.

Time ticks.

\--

Glaring his own milky green eyes down in the mirror, they look glassy. They look fake. Beautiful, ethereal, but fake. 

Dream turns the mirror standing on his drawer a bit up, sliding the coat back upon his loose arm.

Dream carves a pattern into his knee, staring blinding down at the dress robes.

He lets a breath twirl out of his lungs and onto his lap, the yawn threatening to break his composure tilting at the back of his neck.

He never properly learned how to wear the royal clothes-- never thought he’d wear anything but overalls and a sweat-stained shirt that grasped onto his back for dear life.

It’s daunting, thinking about it. As his fingers fidget around the crown hopelessly, Dream’s reminded by how he can’t wear a crown but took many lives in battle.

Dream’s throat restricts and he wants to tell himself to put it down, bury the mirror away. He’s only lathering the wound in salt and it hurts so bad and he misses seeing George behind him so much.

Things come and go, that’s how life moves, the tune of its ever-changing waltz. And yet it tugs at your heart like poorly plucked strings, strumming ugly painful notes inside your chest. 

He forces himself upright, slithering off onto the edge of the bed where his weight lets a dip crease the dents in the mattress, toes uncurling and legs sliding to the floor. A hint of rose-coloured insanity dripping down his head. 

He never properly learned how to wear the crown. He hopes he never will.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update LOL got in a bit of a tricky situation with my host family and my electronics, but i'm back now
> 
> as always, my twt is @raytick4, come yell at me there :) thank you for everything (40k hits? y'all're insane)
> 
> ((((((sorry about the short chapter and the delay but i swear the next chapter makes up for it LOL))))))
> 
> ((((((((((also ao3 stop deleting my UNDERLINES))))))))))
> 
> edit: if you have questions just dm me a long comprehensive list of what you dont understand on twitter


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